I have such a backlog of books to review that there are likely to be endless days of me sitting up late writing little blurbs until the dark circles under my eyes are permanent. Well, I’ve always had minor goth tendencies.

In any case, The Art of Racing in the Rain is a lovely, sad book by Garth Stein about a dog, his person, and the concept of the souls we love never truly leaving us. It’s told as much from the dog’s perspective as the man’s, and I’ve had to put it down more than once while reading it because it was too close to issues with some of my own dogs.

If you love animals, and can stand a good cry, this novel is worth a read.

My birthday was last Monday (the 17th), and, as usual, I received a book from my aunt in Connecticut. In recent years she’s been sending more non-fiction than fiction, but I’m not sure that’s intentional.

In any case, she knows that there is no drug rehab equivalent for bibliophiles, and really, as addictions go, reading is a pretty safe one. I mean, what other substance sends you to a bookstore or library when you’re jonesing for a fix? How often do you see a voracious reader begging on the street corner, “Man, I just need a dollar for another book?”

But I digress.

My birthday book this year is Animals in Translation, by Temple Grandin. I’m barely into it, but already I’m fascinated. It’s about how people with autism respond to animals, often understanding them on levels that neuro-typical humans cannot. I’m reading it as a dog-lover and animal rescue volunteer who loves animals, but apparently this book is quite well regarded. In fact, I found a link to it on the PLoS Biology website, in which the editors actually asked Ms. Grandin to respond to something they’d posted. The complete article is here.

It’s all really interesting, and makes me look at my dogs in a new light. I’ll review the book when I’ve finished with it, of course, but I wanted to share what I have in progress for a change.

Dog Years was, perhaps, not the best choice of read for a time when I was convinced we were going to lose our chihuahua, Zorro. (He’s got a heart condition, and while we know we don’t have much time with him, he’s no longer in that “death rattle” stage.), but I couldn’t resist the happy golden retriever on the cover.

This memoir of the author’s last months with his partner Wally, of the new relationship with partner Paul, and of his two dogs, Arden and Beau, is a rambling story, loosely chronological, but not entirely orderly, in much the same way that walking the dog around the block really involves zigging this way to sniff a fence post, or zooming the opposite direction to pee on that particular blade of grass, or going wildly off course because it was imperative to chase a bird/cat/squirrel/kid on a bicycle.

A gentle read, parts that stood out for me were moments on the beach at Sandy Hook, NJ, which is where I grew up, and the daily routine of dog stewardship (because really, they own us more than we ever own them), and the pain of loss when each finally went to his end – this isn’t a spoiler – it’s obvious from the back cover that the dogs would not survive the book. I laughed when I read about Arden spitting out his medication, and cried when I read that he suffered from anxiety attacks after 9/11 (the dogs lived a good part of their lives in New York).

Dog Years is, in many ways, a memoir of a man told through the eyes of his dogs, though it’s never in their voice. Author Mark Doty is also a poet, and you can hear the poetry underlying the rhythm of his prose.

Goes well with:: Cool water and bits of cheese to share with a cuddly canine friend.