Sick Puppy

Sick Puppy

4.3 154
by Carl Hiaasen

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When Palmer Stoat notices the black pickup truck following him on the highway, he fears his precious Range Rover is about to be carjacked. But Twilly Spree, the man tailing Stoat, has vengeance, not sport-utility vehicles, on his mind. Idealistic, independently wealthy and pathologically short-tempered, Twilly has dedicated himself to saving Florida's wilderness from…  See more details below


When Palmer Stoat notices the black pickup truck following him on the highway, he fears his precious Range Rover is about to be carjacked. But Twilly Spree, the man tailing Stoat, has vengeance, not sport-utility vehicles, on his mind. Idealistic, independently wealthy and pathologically short-tempered, Twilly has dedicated himself to saving Florida's wilderness from runaway destruction. He favors unambiguous political statements -- such as torching Jet-Skis or blowing up banks -- that leave his human targets shaken but re-educated.

After watching Stoat blithely dump a trail of fast-food litter out the window, Twilly decides to teach him a lesson. Thus, Stoat's prized Range Rover becomes home to a horde of hungry dung beetles. Which could have been the end to it had Twilly not discovered that Stoat is one of Florida's cockiest and most powerful political fixers, whose latest project is the "malling" of a pristine Gulf Coast island. Now the real Hiaasen-variety fun begins ...

Dognapping eco-terrorists, bogus big-time hunters, a Republicans-only hooker, an infamous ex-governor who's gone back to nature, thousands of singing toads and a Labrador retriever greater than the sum of his Labrador parts -- these are only some of the denizens of Carl Hiaasen's outrageously funny new novel.

Brilliantly twisted entertainment wrapped around a powerful ecological plea, Sick Puppy gleefully lives up to its title and gives us Hiaasen at his riotous and muckraking best.

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Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
Carl Hiaasen is the reigning master of what Dave Barry recently dubbed "the Bunch of South Florida Wackos" school of crime fiction. His eight novels — of which Sick Puppy is the most outrageous — are grotesque, relentlessly funny accounts of greed and corruption that circle repeatedly around a common theme: the systematic despoliation of modern Florida.

Sick Puppy's convoluted plot springs from a single archetypal phenomenon: the multimillion-dollar real estate deal. This particular deal concerns ex-drug smuggler Robert Clapley and his ongoing attempts to "develop" yet another untouched Gulf Coast island, riding roughshod over its complex ecology and replacing its natural beauties with a full complement of yacht clubs, golf courses, and high-rise condominiums. Clapley's scheme is entirely dependent on the government's willingness to build a million bridge between the island and the Florida mainland. To facilitate the necessary legislation, Clapley secures the services of lobbyist and political fixer Palmer Stoat, inadvertently setting in motion an escalating series of bizarre events.

Palmer Stoat is a man with connections, a man who gets things done. In addition, he is a liar, a philanderer, and a phallocentric egotist with a weakness for imported cigars and "canned" big-game hunts. He is also, unfortunately for him, a litterbug. In the latter capacity, he attracts the attention of a good-hearted, slightly demented ecoterrorist named Twilly Spree. Twilly begins to stalk Palmer, punishing himinspectacular fashion for such petty infractions as tossing hamburgerwrappers out of his car window. Inevitably, Twilly learns that Palmer is a party to a much grander ecological crime: Robert Clapley's impending development of Shearwater Island. At that point, Twilly, who has always had a problem with "anger management," declares unconditional war against Palmer, his partners, and their shortsighted, self-serving schemes.

Twilly's war, which begins with the kidnapping of Palmer's black Labrador (the sick puppy of the title) and ends in the aftermath of a violent encounter with an ancient black rhinoceros named El Jefe, forms the substance of this extravagant entertainment, which is as notable for the vigor and variousness of its characters as it is for the twists and turns of its demented plot. And though Sick Puppy does contain its fair share of sympathetic characters — the perpetually angry Twilly Spree; Desirada "Desie" Stoat, Palmer's attractive, deeply disaffected wife; and a wonderfully characterized wild man (a recurring character in Hiaasen novels) named Skink, a former governor who has seceded from civilized society and declared his own private war against the despoilers of Florida — the novel is ultimately most notable for its richly imagined assortment of patented Hiaasen grotesques.

Foremost among these are Palmer Stoat, who believes, with some justification, that the world and its contents are for sale, and real estate developer Robert Clapley, whose sexuality is rooted in a fetishistic fascination with Barbie dolls. The supporting cast, which is equally off-the-wall, includes Dick Artemis, whose successful career as a Toyota salesman left him perfectly positioned for a second career as governor of Florida; Estella Hyde, a prostitute who will only have sex with registered Republicans; and Karl Krimmler, a rabid opponent of all things natural, a man whose personality was irrevocably warped by a childhood encounter with a hostile chipmunk. Finally, and most memorably, there is Mr. Gash, a professional hit man whose hobbies include sexual acts involving multiple partners and a custom-built trapeze, and who is an avid collector of uncensored recordings of 911 emergency calls.

Sick Puppy is Carl Hiaasen at his most flamboyant and unrestrained. In typical Hiaasen fashion, it is many things at once: thriller, comedy, diatribe, and satirical meditation on the endless varieties of human venality. Its very considerable humor is fueled, at all times, by anger and by an awareness of the simultaneous beauty and fragility of a natural world that is shrinking every day, eroded by the endless desire for power and profit, for "more, more, more, more." Like the best of Hiaasen's earlier work, Sick Puppy is a comedy with brains, heart, and teeth. It is a provocative, immensely entertaining novel, and it deserves the popularity it is doubtless about to achieve.

—Bill Sheehan

Bill Sheehan reviews horror, suspense, and science fiction for Cemetery Dance, The New York Review of Science Fiction, and other publications. His book-length critical study of the fiction of Peter Straub, At the Foot of the Story Tree, will be published by Subterranean Press ( in the spring of 2000.

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Grand Central Publishing
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6.76(w) x 10.90(h) x 1.14(d)

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Chapter Two

After three glasses of wine, Desie could no longer pretend to be following her husband's account of the canned rhinoceros hunt. Across the table she appraised Palmer Stoat as if he were a mime. His fingers danced and his mouth moved, but nothing he said reached her ears. She observed him in two dimensions, as if he were an image on a television screen: an animated middle-aged man with a slight paunch, thin blond hair, reddish eyebrows, pale skin, upcurled lips and vermilion-splotched cheeks (from too much sun or too much alcohol). Palmer had a soft neck but a strong chiseled chin, the surgical scars invisible in the low light. His teeth were straight and polished, but his smile had a twist of permanent skepticism. To Desie, her husband's nose had always appeared too small for his face; a little girl's nose, really, although he insisted it was the one he'd been born with. His blue eyes also seemed tiny, though quick and bright with self-confidence. His face was, in the way of prosperous ex-jocks, roundish and pre-jowly and companionable. Desie wouldn't have called Stoat a hunk but he was attractive in that gregarious southern frat-boy manner, and he had overwhelmed her with favors and flattery and constant attention. Later she realized that the inexhaustible energy with which Palmer had pursued their courtship was less a display of ardor than an ingrained relentlessness; it was how he went after anything he wanted. They dated for four weeks and then got married on the island of Tortola. Desie supposed she had been in a fog, and now the fog was beginning to lift. What in the world had she done? She pushed the awful question out of her mind, and whenshe did she was able to hear Palmer's voice again.

"Some creepo was tailing me," he was saying, "for like a hundred miles."


Her husband snorted. "To rob my lily-white ass, that's why."

"This was a black guy?" Desie asked.

"Or a Cuban. I couldn't see which," Stoat said, "but I tell you what, sweets, I was ready for the sonofabitch. Señor Glock was in my lap, locked and loaded."

"On the turnpike, Palmer?"

"He would have been one stone-dead mother."

"Just like your rhino," Desie said. "By the way, are you getting her stuffed like the others?"

"Mounted," Stoat corrected. "And just the head."

"Lovely. We can hang it over the bed."

"Speaking of which, guess what they're doing with rhinoceros horns."

"Who's they?" Desie asked.

"Asians and such."

Desie knew, but she let Palmer tell the story. He concluded with Durgess's fanciful rumor of two-day erections.

"Can you imagine!" Stoat hooted.

Desie shook her head. "Who'd even want one of those?"

"Maybe you might, someday." He winked.

Desie glanced around for the waiter. Where was dinner? How could it take so long to boil pasta?

Stoat poured himself another glass of wine. "Rhino horns, Holy Christ on a ten-speed. What next, huh?"

"That's why poachers are killing them off," his wife said.


"That's why they're almost extinct. God, Palmer, where have you been?"

"Working for a living. So you can sit home, paint your toenails and learn all about endangered species on the Discovery Channel."

Desie said, "Try the New York Times."

"Well, pardon me." Stoat sniffed sarcastically. "I read the newspaper today, oh boy."

This was one of her husband's most annoying habits, dropping the lyrics of old rock songs into everyday conversation. Palmer thought it clever, and perhaps it wouldn't have bothered Desie so much if occasionally he got the words right, but he never did. Though Desie was much younger, she was familiar with the work of Dylan and the Beatles and the Stones, and so on. In college she had worked two summers at a Sam Goody outlet.

To change the subject, she said: "So what did Dick Artemus want?"

"A new bridge." Stoat took a sideways bite from a sourdough roll. "No big deal."

"A bridge to what?"

"Some nowhere bird island over on the Gulf. How about passing the butter?"

Desie said, "Why would the governor want a bridge to nowhere?"

Her husband chuckled, spraying crumbs. "Why does the governor want anything? It's not for me to question, darling. I just take the calls and work my magic."

"A day in the life," said Desie.

"You got it."

Once, as a condition of a probation, Twilly Spree had been ordered to attend a course on "anger management." The class was made up of men and women who had been arrested for outbursts of violence, mostly in domestic situations. There were husbands who'd clobbered their wives, wives who'd clobbered their husbands, and even one grandmother who had clobbered her sixty-two-year-old son for blaspheming during Thanksgiving supper. Others of Twilly's classmates had been in bar fights, gambling frays and bleacher brawls at Miami Dolphins games. Three had shot guns at strangers during traffic altercations and, of those, two had been wounded by return fire. Then there was Twilly.

The instructor of the anger-management course presented himself as a trained psychotherapist. Dr. Boston was his name. On the first day he asked everyone in class to compose a short essay titled "What Makes Me Really, Really Mad." While the students wrote, Dr. Boston went through the stack of manila file folders that had been sent to him by the court. After reading the file of Twilly Spree, Dr. Boston set it aside on a corner of the desk. "Mr. Spree," he said in a level tone. "We're going to take turns sharing our stories. Would you mind going first?"

Twilly stood up and said: "I'm not done with my assignment."

"You may finish it later."

"It's a question of focus, sir. I'm in the middle of a sentence."

Dr. Boston paused. Inadvertently he flicked his eyes to Twilly's folder. "All right, let's compromise. You go ahead and finish the sentence, and then you can address the class."

Twilly sat down and ended the passage with the words ankle-deep in the blood of fools! After a moment's thought, he changed it to ankle-deep in the evanescing blood of fools!

He stuck the pencil behind one ear and rose.

Dr. Boston said: "Done? Good. Now please share your story with the rest of us."

"That'll take some time, the whole story will."

"Mr. Spree, just tell us why you're here."

"I blew up my uncle's bank."

Twilly's classmates straightened and turned in their seats.

"A branch," Twilly added, "not the main office."

Dr. Boston said, "Why do you think you did it?"

"Well, I'd found out some things."

"About your uncle."

"About a loan he'd made. A very large loan to some very rotten people."

"Did you try discussing it with your uncle?" asked Dr. Boston.

"About the loan? Several times. He wasn't particularly interested."

"And that made you angry?"

"No, discouraged." Twilly squinted his eyes and locked his hands around the back of his neck. "Disappointed, frustrated, insulted, ashamed -- "

"But isn't it fair to say you were angry, too? Wouldn't a person need to be pretty angry to blow up a bank building?"

"No. A person would need to be resolved. That I was."

Dr. Boston felt the amused gaze of the other students, who were awaiting his reaction. He said, "I believe what I'm hearing is some denial. What do the rest of you think?"

Twilly cut in: "I'm not denying anything. I purchased the dynamite. I cut the fuses. I take full responsibility."

Another student asked: "Did anybody get kilt?"

"Of course not," Twilly snapped. "I did it on a Sunday, when the bank was closed. That's my point -- if I was really pissed, I would've done it on a Monday morning, and I would've made damn sure my uncle was inside at the time."

Several other probationers nodded in agreement. Dr. Boston said: "Mr. Spree, a person can be very mad without pitching a fit or flying off the handle. Anger is one of those complicated emotions that can be close to the surface or buried deeply, so deeply we often don't recognize it for what it is. What I'm suggesting is that at some subconscious level you must've been extremely angry with your uncle, and probably for reasons that had nothing to do with his banking practices."

Twilly frowned. "You're saying that's not enough?"

"I'm saying -- "

"Loaning fourteen million dollars to a rock-mining company that's digging craters in the Amazon River basin. What more did I need?"

Dr. Boston said, "It sounds like you might've had a difficult relationship with your uncle."

"I barely know the man. He lives in Chicago. That's where the bank is."

"How about when you were a boy?"

"Once he took me to a football game."

"Ah. Did something happen that day?"

"Yeah," said Twilly. "One team scored more points than the other team, and then we went home."

Now the class was snickering and it was Dr. Boston's turn to manage his anger.

"Look, it's simple," Twilly said. "I blew up the building to help him grow a conscience, OK? To make him think about the greedy wrongheaded direction his life was heading. I put it all in a letter."

"Yes, the letter's in the file," said Dr. Boston. "But I noticed you didn't sign your name to it."

Twilly spread his hands. "Do I look like an idiot? It's against the law, blowing up financial institutions."

"And just about anything else."

"So I've been advised," Twilly muttered.

"But, still, at a subconscious level -- "

"I don't have a subconscious, Doctor. That's what I'm trying to explain. Everything that happens in my brain happens right on the surface, like a stove, where I can see it and feel it and taste the heat." Twilly sat down and began massaging his temples with his fingertips.

Dr. Boston said, "That would make you biologically unique in the species, Mr. Spree, not having a subconscious. Don't you dream in your sleep?"



"Seriously," Twilly said.

"Never once?"

"Not ever in my whole life."

Another probationer waved a hand. "C'mon, man, you never had no nightmares?"

"Nope," Twilly said. "I can't dream. Maybe if I could I wouldn't be here now."

He licked the tip of his pencil and resumed work on the essay, which he submitted to Dr. Boston after class. Dr. Boston did not acknowledge reading Twilly's composition, but the next morning and every morning for the following four weeks, an armed campus security guard was posted in the rear of the classroom. Dr. Boston never again called on Twilly Spree to speak. At the end of the term, Twilly received a notarized certificate saying he'd successfully completed anger-management counseling, and was sent back to his probation officer, who commended him on his progress.

If only they could see me now, Twilly thought. Preparing for a hijack.

First he'd followed the litterbug home, to one of those exclusive islands off Las Olas Boulevard, near the beach. Nice spread the guy had: old two-story Spanish stucco with barrel-tile shingles and vines crawling the walls. The house was on a cul-de-sac, leaving Twilly no safe cover for lurking in his dirty black pickup. So he found a nearby construction site -- a mansion going up. The architecture was pre-Scarface Medellín, all sharp angles and marble facings and smoked glass. Twilly's truck blended in nicely among the backhoes and cement mixers. Through the twilight he strolled back toward the litterbug's home, where he melted into a hedge of thick ficus to wait. Parked in the driveway next to the Range Rover was a Beemer convertible, top down, which Twilly surmised would belong to the wife, girlfriend or boyfriend. Twilly had a notion that made him smile.

An hour later the litterbug came out the front door. He stood in the amber light under the stucco arch and fired up a cigar. Moments later a woman emerged from the house, slowly backing out and pulling the door shut behind her; bending forward at the waist, as if saying good-bye to a small child or perhaps a dog. As the litterbug and his female companion crossed the driveway, Twilly saw her fanning the air in an exaggerated way, indicating she didn't much care for cigar smoke. This brought another smile to Twilly's face as he slipped from the hedge and hustled back to his truck. They'll be taking the ragtop, he thought. So she can breathe.

Twilly followed the couple to an Italian restaurant on an unscenic stretch of Federal Highway, not far from the seaport. It was a magnificent choice for what Twilly had in mind. Litterbug parked the convertible in true dickhead style, diagonally across two spaces. The strategy was to protect one's expensive luxury import from scratches and dings by preventing common folks from parking next to it. Twilly was elated to witness this selfish stunt. He waited ten minutes after the cigar-smoking man and cigar-hating woman had entered the restaurant, to make sure they'd been seated. Then he sped off on his quest.

Her stage name was Tia and she was already up on their table, already twirling her mail-order ponytail and peeling off her lacy top when the stink hit her like a blast furnace. Damn, she thought, did a sewer pipe break?

And the three guys all grins and high fives, wearing matching dark blue coveralls with filthy sleeves; laughing and smoking and sipping their six-dollar beers and going Tee-uh, izzat how you say it? Kinda name is Tee-uh? And all three of them waving fifties, for God's sake; stinking like buzzard puke and singsonging her name, her stage name, and slipping brand-new fifty-dollar bills into her G-string. So now Tia had a major decision to make, a choice between the unbelievable gutter-rot stench and the unbelievably easy money. And what she did was concentrate mightily on breathing through her mouth, so that after a while the reek didn't seem so unbearable and the truth was, hey, they were nice-enough guys. Regular working stiffs. They even apologized for stinking up the joint. After a few table dances they asked Tia to sit and join them because they had the wildest story for her to hear. Tia said OK, just a minute, and hurried to the dressing room. In her locker she found a handkerchief, upon which she sprinkled expensive Paris perfume, another unwanted gift from another smitten customer. She returned to the table to find an open bottle of the club's priciest champagne, which was almost potable. The crew in the dirty blue coveralls was making a sloppy toast to somebody; clinking their glasses and imploring Tia to sit down, c'mon, sit. Have some bubbly. They couldn't wait to tell her what had happened, all three chattering simultaneously, raising their voices, trying to take charge of the storytelling. Tia, holding the scented hankie under her nose, found herself authentically entertained and of course not believing a word they said, except for the part about their occupations, which they could hardly embellish, given the odor.

How come you don't believe we got our load hijacked! one of them exclaimed.

Because it's ridiculous, said Tia.

Really it was more of a trade, said one of his pals. The young man give us three grand cash and the use of his pickup and told us to meet back here in a hour.

Tia flared her eyebrows. This total stranger, he hands you three thousand bucks and drives off in a --

All fifties, one of the men said, waving a handful of bills. A grand each!

Tia, giggling through the handkerchief: You guys are seriously fulla shit.

No, ma'am, we ain't. We might smell like we are, but we ain't.

The one waving the fattest wad was talking loudest. What we told you, he said, that's the honest-to-God truth of how we come to be here tonight, watchin' you dance. And if you don't believe it, Miz Tee-uh, just come out back to the parkin' lot in about fifteen minutes when the boy gets back.

Maybe I will, said Tia.

But by then she was busy entertaining a table of cable-TV executives, so she missed seeing Twilly Spree drive up to the neon-lit strip club in a full-sized county garbage truck. When Twilly got out, one of the men in blue coveralls tossed him the keys to the black pickup.

"You guys go through all that dough I gave you?" Twilly asked amiably.

"No, but just about."

"And it was worth every dollar, I bet."

"Oh yeah."

Twilly shook hands with each of the men and said good-bye.

"Wait, son, come on inside and have just one beer. We got a lady wants to meet you."

"Rain check," said Twilly.

"No, but see, she don't believe us. She thinks we robbed the bingo hall or somethin'. That's how come you gotta come inside just for a minute, to tell her it's no bullshit, you paid us three grand to rent out the shitwagon."

Twilly smiled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hey, man, where's the load? The truck, it looks empty."

"That's right," Twilly said. "There's nothing to haul to the dump. You guys can go straight on home tonight."

"But what happened to it?"

"Best you don't know."

"Oh Lord," one of the garbagemen muttered to his pals. "This is a crazy-ass boy. He's gone done some crazy-ass thing."

"No," Twilly said, "I believe you'd approve. I really do." Then he drove off, thinking how wrong Dr. Boston had been. Anger wasn't such a complicated emotion.

Palmer Stoat ordered an antipasto salad, garlic rolls, fettuccine Alfredo, a side of meatballs, and before long Desie had to look away, for fear of being sick. He was perspiring, that's how hard he went at the food; droplets of sweat streaking both sides of his jawline. Desie was ashamed of herself for feeling so revulsed; this was her husband, after all. It wasn't as if his personality had transformed after they got married. He was the same man in all respects, two years later. Desie felt guilty about marrying him, guilty about having second thoughts, guilty about the rhinoceros he'd shot dead that morning.

"From here to the salad bar," Stoat was telling her. "That's how close she was."

"And for that you needed a scope?"

"Better safe than sorry. That's Durgess's motto."

Stoat ordered tortoni for dessert. He used a fork to probe the ice cream for fragments of almonds, which he raked into a tidy pattern along the perimeter of the plate. Watching the fastidious ritual plunged Desie deeper into melancholy. Later, while Palmer reviewed the bill, she excused herself and went to the rest room, where she dampened a paper towel to wipe off her lipstick and makeup. She had no idea why, but it made her feel much better. By the time she finished, her husband was gone from the restaurant.

Desie walked outside and was nearly poleaxed by the smell. She cupped her hands to her mouth and looked around for Palmer. He was in the parking lot, beneath a streetlight. As Desie approached him, the odor got worse, and soon she saw why: a sour mound of garbage ten feet high. Desie estimated it to weigh several tons. Palmer Stoat stood at the base of the fetid hill, his eyes fixed lugubriously on the peak.

"Where's the car?" Desie asked with a cough.

Palmer's arms flopped at his sides. He began squeaking like a lost kitten.

"Don't tell me." She struggled not to gag on the stink. "Dammit, Palmer. My Beemer!"

Haltingly he began to circle the rancid dune. He raised an arm, pointing in outraged stupefaction. A cloud of flies buzzed about his face, but he made no effort to shoo them away.

"Goddammit," Desie cried. "Didn't I tell you to put the top up? Didn't I?"

From the Hardcover edition.

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Sick Puppy 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 154 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was my first book by Carl Hiaasen and I am hooked. Living in Florida for 7 years and I can see where he gets his inspiration from!! One of the funniest authors out there!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Like skinny dip. The characters are well developed. I had to laugh litterally out loud several times. Enjoyable at the very least!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Sick Puppy is right up there with Skinny Dip in my opinion as one or two of this author's funniest books. But 'Sick' is truly twisted and witty. Not too many authors could handle this material and make it work. Great job, Carl.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Hysterically funny and just an all-out fun ride! I rarely read a book twice, but this one I've come back to again and again. Skink is my choice for our next president!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I've been plugging through Hiaasen's books the last few weeks and have to admit this is one of my favorites. The occasional first person dialogue of Boodle/McGuinn (the black labrador dog that is stolen) is classic and worth the read by itself. And then there is Skink who has been introduced in previous novels (Double Whammy, Native Tongue). I love the crazy old guy more and more with each adventure. Only Hiaasen's warp mind can think of a character such as Skink. LOL. I plan to read this book many more times.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is the first book by Carl Hiaasen I read and I was addicted. I made my husband read it as I knew he would love it, he did, and have read everything he has written since. I plan never to go to florida though and never to litter! Love Skink and can see a great movie in this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was impressed! It was the first book I've read by this author but I will definitely go back for more! Interesting characters, entertaining plot, and a writing style that keeps you turning the pages. (I especially liked the Black Lab...) Great read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have read all of Hiassens books. Loved them all, my personal favorite being Lucky You. He makes you see, feel and believe the characters and events in the books are real, and at the same time wondering how in the world they can be so outrageous.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Carl Hiaasen has written a very well crafted story about extreme people, left and right, Good and evil, and the and how it's hard to tell the difference sometimes.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Why did you have to say dick medicaine on the sample dont you know thats bad?
Jill_R More than 1 year ago
The title character is a black labrador retriever, who eats some fake eyeballs from stuffed animals, gets sick and needs surgery to remove them. Then he's kidnapped by an eco-terrorist who cut the eyes out of the stuffed animals in the first place. The lab's owner is a lobbyist. The eco-terrorist is angry at the lobbyist for throwing trash out his car window. He's so angry that he also dumped a whole truckload of dung beetles on the lobbyist's luxury car. The eco-terrorist finds out the lobbyist is helping to put through development that will turn an unspoiled island into a condo community that will certainly disturb the island's ecosystem. Then the story gets crazy, full of wacky characters. The book's title could also apply to just about any of them. There's the eco-terrorist (independently wealthy thanks to a trust fund), the lobbyist (who also thinks he's a hotshot big game hunter), the lobbyist's wife (who takes off with the eco-terrorist), the governor of Florida (who's a former Toyota salesman), a former governor (who suddenly left office mid-term and now lives like a wild man in the Everglades), a developer (with a thing for Barbie), a biologist (who sold his appreciation for nature for some quick cash) and a hit man (who listens to 911 calls for amusement), among many others. The good guys in this story are crazy. The bad guys in this story are really bad and kind of twisted. The women in this story (and the black labrador) are the only characters who seem to have any sense. Carl Hiassen has a reputation for writing funny stories about Florida and its sometimes unbelievable people and events. He has written for the Miami Herald newspaper for a long time, so he's seen and heard his share of wild stories about Florida. Sick Puppy is very funny, but it opens your eyes to how corrupt politics works and the things that often happen behind the scenes in the name of progress. It also shows that sometimes people can go too far in the name of progress.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Drewano More than 1 year ago
This is the second book from Carl Hiaasen (Bad Monkey) and while entertaining it felt a bit disjointed.  It started off and ended strong, but in the middle it seemed to lose focus a bit with all the intertwined stories.  Enjoyable slap stick comedy at times but at others times it just seemed like he was trying too hard to be outlandish just to be outlandish without adding a lot to the story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Two pups a pup is a baby fury their names are Hope and Scout if you want to adopt them go to 'ethic' res 1 and talk to Bliss thank you and goodbye
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
-puts sally and jojo down so thet can play-
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Well we have a huge selection of pups but not the new lab
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Chases sallys tail
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Whined (hi)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Padded around
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Growls. ((You realize that im also rping willow, the real owner of this puppy? She is looking for him at borgias res two. He got lost. If you would so kindly return him, plz.))
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Yips plyfully up at raven her tail wagging furiously with the excitement of a new person
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It does that sometimes wats ur emal so ican add u