When I was in graduate school in Ohio, a colleague called one day and said that two stray dogs had shown up on her front porch. I was instantly skeptical: Two stray dogs? Aren’t stray dogs, by definition, lone wolves? Do stray dogs typically rove in tandem, like Butch and Sundance, Laurel and Hardy, Thelma and Louise?
My friend was in no mood to argue the finer points of canine travel etiquette. She was in a fix: She could only keep one of the dogs. If she couldn’t find a home for the other one, well … Simmering within that ellipsis was the probable fate of the unclaimed pooch.
And thus I acquired Ramsey. Ramsey, the dog of my heart. Ramsey, the dog of a lifetime.
Most people have a dog story just like mine. A dog arrives, makes a little mischief (a chewed-up slipper here, an overturned garbage can there) and before you know it, an existence without the dog seems unthinkable. And yet, of course, the day comes when you must say goodbye. As essayist Thomas Lynch reminds us, “Grief is the tax we pay on our attachments.” Ramsey — a flop-eared, mild-mannered mutt who loved hot dogs and hated thunderstorms and fireworks — is no more, but I will mourn her forever.
I wanted to mention Ramsey so that I’m not accused of being heartless and cold and anti-canine when I say: A lot of dog stories annoy me. Far too many of them are sentimental and silly. They strip dogs of their dignity. They try to make dogs seem human — as if being human is the highest of compliments. It’s not, actually. In my book, it borders on insult.
Dog books are always popular, but this year may mark some kind of tipping point.
Inspired perhaps by the inexplicable success of the mawkish and insipid book and movie “Marley & Me,” a slew of dog books are romping into bookstores even as I type, doubtless knocking things over and leaving muddy paw prints. They include the recent paperback publication of the best-selling Garth Stein novel “The Art of Racing in the Rain” (2008) and a non-fiction book called “One Nation Under Dog: Adventures in the New World of Prozac-Popping Puppies, Dog-Park Politics and Organic Pet Food” ( Henry Holt) by Michael Schaffer, one of those books that tells us what we already know — Americans love their pets! — but does so in a fresh, entertaining way.
In the next month or so, you can choose from “Soul of a Dog: Reflections on the Spirits of the Animals of Bedlam Farm” (Villard) by Jon Katz, “Happy Dog: Caring for Your Dog’s Body, Mind and Spirit” (New American Library) by Billy Rafferty and Jill Cahr, and “A Year of Cats and Dogs” (Permanent Press), a novel by Highland Park resident Margaret Hawkins.
No two dogs, and no two dog books, are alike. I loved “Soul of a Dog,” got some useful tips from “Happy Dog,” and ended up relishing “A Year of Cats and Dogs,” a quirky, sparkling novel that I intend to reread right away.
Conversely, I couldn’t wait to be rid of “The Art of Racing in the Rain.”
I suppose there’s nothing inherently wrong with a story narrated by a dog, but any book featuring the lines, “Sure, I’m stuffed into a dog’s body, but that’s just the shell. It’s what’s inside that’s important. The soul. And my soul is very human,” instantly sets my teeth on edge. No thoughtful dog desires a human soul. Where do some people get the crazy idea, promulgated by novels like this one, that animals yearn to be human? Dogs get along just fine, thanks very much, without being able to speak or use credit cards or surf the Internet.
Katz, on the other hand, respects dogs for what they are: dogs. He grants the same sweet favor to sheep, cows, cats and chickens.
Like his previous books, “Soul of a Dog” is a lyrical yet unsentimental memoir about the bond between people and animals. While exploring the question of whether animals possess souls, Katz recounts daily life on his farm in upstate New York.
You will admire and respect his dog Rose, but not because she’s cute or cuddly — or, heaven forbid, chatty. She’s a working dog. “It’s deep in her bloodlines, the result of generations of service,” Katz writes.
Dogs inspire a protective instinct in us, a heightened sense of responsibility. That helps explain why the outcry against NFL quarterback Michael Vick, onetime proprietor of a dogfighting operation, was so loud and so passionate, and why last week’s news that he has joined the Philadelphia Eagles drew protests, even though Vick served prison time for his transgression and seems contrite.
We seem to need dog books almost as much as we need dogs, and we need dogs a lot.
Ramsey’s name, by the way, came from a favorite childhood book: “Remarkable Ramsey, the Talking Dog” (1967) by Barbara Rinkhoff. This tome marks the single exception to my rule that forbids yammering canines. And its persistence in my memory matches, I am sure, a book in your past featuring a pooch as protagonist, a book that has stuck with you through life’s storms and rainbows.
There’s a simple test to see if a dog book has achieved greatness: Its spirit must live up to the creature it describes, to the dog it tries to make immortal. It must be worthy of my Ramsey, and it must be worthy of yours too.
Julia Keller
CULTURAL CRITIC