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The Dog Who Danced: A novel

The Dog Who Danced: A novel

4.3 32
by Susan Wilson

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"Multiple hankies, dog lovers…this is an emotional read." –Library Journal

If there's been a theme in Justine Meade's life, it's loss. Her mother, her home, even her son. The one bright spot in her loss-filled life, the partner she could always count on, was Mack, her grey and black Sheltie – that is, until she is summoned back


"Multiple hankies, dog lovers…this is an emotional read." –Library Journal

If there's been a theme in Justine Meade's life, it's loss. Her mother, her home, even her son. The one bright spot in her loss-filled life, the partner she could always count on, was Mack, her grey and black Sheltie – that is, until she is summoned back to her childhood home after more than twenty years away.

Ed and Alice Parmalee are mourning a loss of their own. Seven years after their daughter was taken from them, they're living separate lives together. Dancing around each other, and their unspeakable heartbreak, unable to bridge the chasm left between them. When they find a little black and gray dog by the side of the road, they take him in.

Fiercely loyal, acutely perceptive and guided by a herd dog's instinct, Mack has a way of bringing out the best in his humans. Whether it's as Justine's partner, or just the ebb and flow of a family's rhythms, it's as though the little Shetland Sheepdog was born to bring people together.

Everyone needs Mack. But to whom does the little dog who danced belong?

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Justine Meade has spent most of her 43 years on the move. She left home young, got in and out of an early marriage, and had a son who, unhappy with her restless life, went to live with his father. When Justine learns that her father is dying, she hitches a cross-country ride with a long-haul trucker from Seattle to Massachusetts, hoping for a resolution to their relationship. Her companion on the journey is Mack, a sheepdog trained to dance. But at a rest stop, her ride drives off, unknowingly taking Mack with him. Later abandoned, Mack is found by an older couple still grieving after their teenager daughter’s suicide years earlier. Meanwhile, Justine reaches her father in time to revisit the fight that sent her away from home. She gets a new perspective on the past while Mack, nearer to Justine than she realizes, helps the old couple heal. When chance reunites Justine and Mack, she decides to get back in touch with her son. Wilson persuasively adopts a dog’s perspective from time to time in a story full of cliché and sentiment. Fans of Wilson’s One Good Dog, or new readers looking for a heartwarming tale of the bond between human and animal, will find plenty to enjoy. Agent: Andrea Cirillo, Jane Rotrosen Agency. (Mar.)
Library Journal
Wilson's second canine novel (after the best-selling One Good Dog) again pulls at readers' heartstrings. Mack is a gray-and-white sheltie whose owner, Justine Meade, has taught him to dance. Living in Seattle, Justine, a divorced single mother, has only Mack as her constant companion. When she learns that her father is dying, the financially strapped Justine pays a truck driver $300 to take her and Mack to Boston. But he abandons Justine at a truck stop with Mack in the backseat and later dumps the dog by the side of the road. VERDICT Told from multiple points of view (Justine's, Mack's, and a couple who find the lost Mack), this is an emotional read about dealing with loss, accepting things you cannot change, and moving on with your life. Recommended for those who love dogs and enjoyed Wilson's earlier work. [See Prepub Alert, 9/23/11.]—Susan Hayes, Chattahoochee Valley Libs., Columbus, GA
Kirkus Reviews
Love, loss and redemption are explored in Wilson's (One Good Dog, 2010, etc.) latest mainstream fiction. As a young girl, Justine Meade lost her mother. Her father quickly married Adele, a stepmother who disliked and mistreated Justine. At 17, Justine left home. She found work in Brooklyn, married the boss' son, but then divorced and began an itinerant life, always ready to move on. Wilson writes Justine in first person, with back story reflecting her never-quite-satisfied adulthood, one fractured by her teenage son's recent resolution to live with his father. With her own estranged father battling cancer, Justine has been summoned home. Justine lives in Seattle, tends bar and has one maxed-out credit card. So she pays a regular patron $300 to hitch a ride in his long-haul rig, taking along Mack, her Sheltie and one source of unconditional love. On the road, the trucker assumes Justine is willing to share a bed, but Justine refuses. Frustrated, he strands her at an Ohio truck stop. Only when he reaches Massachusetts does the trucker discover Mack in the cab's sleeper. He dumps the dog. In Ohio, Justine reluctantly accepts help from Mitch, a one-legged biker who, belying his gruff exterior, is a symphony violinist. Mitch could only chase the big rig for a short distance, which left Justine in a frantic and uncoordinated pursuit while simultaneously attempting to reach her father in New Bedford. Mitch appears near novel's end, but his likable character deserves more. Meantime, Mack is rescued by Ed and Alice, a couple mired in a miasma of despair over the suicide of their daughter. Instinctively, Mack begins to heal the rift between them. While not detracting from the story, there is predictable anthropomorphism, and Wilson readily relies on a Sheltie's nature and behavior to drive the emotion-packed story to its somewhat too-easy climax.

As with Marley and Me and The Art of Racing in the Rain, it's hard not to like a book where a dog is a major player.

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The Dog Who Danced

By Susan Wilson

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2012 Susan Wilson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-5054-1


"You gonna finish that?" Artie stubs a blunt finger in the direction of my English muffin. We're sitting in a Travel America rest stop, one of the several that we've visited on this west-to-east run. He likes to keep on schedule; I like to pause for an hour and get the blood flowing in my legs again after hours in the cab of the eighteen-wheeler, inhaling Artie's cigarette smoke and drinking warm, flat Coke. TAs are little shopping centers, catering to folks who live on the road, modern Gypsies, with anything you can think of for your vehicle from oil to mud flaps to little bobblehead dashboard figures of football players and Jesus. The restaurants offer big man's meals, all-you-can-eats — chicken-fried steak, biscuits, apple pie. How hungry can a man be who has sat in a rig all day, keeping busy with radio and Red Bull?

"No. Take it." Unlike the majority of the people jammed into the booths and bellied up to the counter, I have no appetite, no desire to heap my plate with eggs and sausages. The good hot coffee is enough for me. I'm hoping that Artie will stay put long enough for me to visit the ladies' shower room.

I'm riding shotgun with Artie Schmidt because I need to get back to the East Coast. He comes into my bar pretty regularly when he's not on the road. It was Candy's idea, hitching the ride instead of flying. She knew that round-trip airfare would make me have to choose between rent and food; and a one-way ticket might mean that she would have to find another girl. Besides, this way I could take Mack with me. The idea of being in my stepmother's presence without an ally was unthinkable. Going with Artie meant that I could take my dog with me, and there is no way I'd subject my Sheltie to being cargo.

Frankly, it was Candy who convinced me that I had to go east in the first place. My stepmother didn't reach out often, or at all, so when she called to say my father was failing, it was almost impossible to get past the fact that it was Adele on the phone, rather than take in the fact of my father's dying. Wicked stepmothers are only in fairy stories, right? I'm here to tell you that Cinderella had it good compared to what that woman put me through. But Candy said I should go, that it was important. Family is important. Right. Despite my better instincts, I set my course eastward and signed on with Artie Schmidt. Mack, my blue merle Sheltie, right alongside me. The boyfriend who gave Mack to me is long gone, but my little man stays, keeping his long, pointy nose at my heels wherever I go.

Candy Kane — and that's her real name — runs a decent tavern just outside the city limits of Seattle. I've lived pretty much everywhere. Starting when I walked out of the house the day after high school graduation, getting as far as Somerville, where I bunked in with a pair of roommates I found on a message board in a coffee shop. Then down Interstate 95 to Brooklyn, where I might have stayed; then Florida, then Louisiana and Texas. I have made my way as far west as California, and as far north as Washington State, where I've stayed put longer than anywhere else. When I look at a map of the United States, touch all those big cities and little towns that I've spent time in, I see that I've been moving in a slow clockwise circle around the country. When we're getting the place ready to open, before the first happy-hour customers come in and want to watch ESPN or CNN, Candy calls me over when Jeopardy is on; I can nail the geography questions.

My point was never to return to my starting place, New Bedford, Massachusetts. I'm like the old-time whalers, seeking my fortune far from home. Instead of the ocean, I travel along major highways. Instead of ships, I own clunkers good for only a few thousand miles. Instead of whales, I'm not sure what I'm seeking. Ahab had revenge in mind. I just haven't found the one place that will hold me still. When I was young, I thought that there would be a man to tie me down, but it never worked out that way. And no job was ever lifelong interesting; not one has ever gotten me to sign on for the retirement plan.

You might think that having a kid would have kept me in one place, or at least slowed me down, but even that failed to root me. Every time I pulled up stakes, I told my son that no matter where we were, we were at home as long as we were together. For a long time, that was true, but then, well, it wasn't.

So, here I am, circling back to my starting point in a direct run down Interstate 90, New Bedford–bound.

* * *

"I'd like a shower."

"And I'd like to keep on schedule. You've already slowed me down with twice as many pee breaks as I take."

"You pee in a bottle."

Artie pulls off his greasy Tractor Supply cap and runs his fingers through his stringy hair, resettles the cap, and drags a long breath. "Five minutes, or I swear to God I'll leave without you."

Artie has said this before. I smile and grab my duffel bag, which nestles at my feet. It contains everything I need and nothing that I don't. That bag and I have a longer relationship than most married couples. I pull a couple of dollars out of my back pocket and drop them on the check. "Give me seven and I'll meet you at the truck. Go buy yourself a pack of gum."

"Justine. I mean it. I come in late with this load and I'm fucked."

"Then don't hold me up talking to me." I shoulder my duffel and stride off to the showers.

Once Artie figured out that I meant it, that I was paying him three hundred bucks to let me ride east with him, and that didn't include any physical stuff, he'd turned sullen. It's funny how the barroom personality can be so different from that of the real person. Mr. How's My Girl quickly became Mr. Cranky. Tough. I'm not taking this ride for the company. I keep Mack between us, and get out of the cab while Artie catches a few hours' sleep — walking Mack around quiet parking lots, sitting at empty picnic tables and sipping cold coffee — then unroll my sleeping bag and crawl into Artie's man-smelly bunk to catch my own z's. Artie doesn't want Mack in his bed, but that's okay. The dog curls up on my seat, his little ears twisted in my direction, so I know he's not really sleeping. On guard. Shelties, miniature collies, are guard dogs by breeding. His instincts are to watch the hills for wolves. Artie is on notice every time Mack stares at him with his eagle eyes.

* * *

There are three shower stalls. One is broken, and the other two are in use. I should forget about it. I wash my face and brush my teeth. Whoever those two women are, they are flipping taking a long time. I floss. I wait. I know that Artie is getting pissed. Finally, the shower turns off. Now I have to wait for Miss America to dry off and get dressed. "People waiting out here!" I shove my washcloth and toothbrush back into my bag.

No answer. The second shower shuts off. The room is suddenly quiet except for the sound of towel against skin. I look at my watch. My time is done. I pick up my duffel, and, miraculously, Shower Queen exits the booth. I can do this in one minute. I can't stand the feeling of dirty hair. I hate that I smell like day-old sweat and Artie's cigarettes. I can get in and under and out in two minutes, tops. I won't dry my hair.

Artie will be pissed, but I'm confident that he'll just bitch, not leave. I strip.

Five minutes later — it can't have been more than five minutes — I emerge from the shower room, wet towel rolled up under my arm, duffel over my shoulder, and my hair, wet and unstyled, hanging to my shoulders. I'm in the second of three T-shirts I've brought and the same jeans I started out with. But I feel better. I'll finish the job in the truck, put on the mascara and finger-wave my hair.

As I promised, and only a couple of minutes late, I head out the automatic doors, making straight for the truck lot. Maybe thirty semis are lined up in rows, Roadway, Bemis, UPS, Mayflower Movers, and independents with family names on the cabs and unmarked trailers behind. Rigs with full berths above, rigs with shiny red and chrome, fancy lettering, rigs with more lights than a carnival midway. And campers. Campers snuggled up between the big guys, tagalongs and fifth wheels; double-axle motor homes. Four-wheel-drive trucks with engines that rival those powering the big rigs.

I don't see Artie's truck. I look to the diesel pumps and then the line for the truck wash, but he's not there. I start to trot down the lane between trucks. His rig isn't distinctive, a plain dull green. He's hand-lettered his name, Arthur B. Schmidt, on the driver's door in an uneven attempt at block letters — the Schmidt is narrower than the Arthur. He's hauling a trailer that he was hired to haul. Nothing to distinguish it from the others. But I can't have missed it. It's been my home for the past two days.

"Artie, for God's sake, stop teasing." I say this under my breath, but the panic is rising, a sour taste in my freshly brushed mouth, the taste of trouble. I stop looking for Artie. I know that he's gone. The mean SOB has called my bluff. He's taken my three hundred bucks and abandoned me in Ohio.

Then it hits me, like someone has punched me in the stomach. Mack was in the cab. My dog was in the truck, where I'd left him after giving him a quick walk in the doggy rest area. He's been waiting for us to come out and give him a little treat of Artie's leftovers, a bowl of fresh water. I can't believe that Artie would have driven off with him. There's no chance Artie would keep him. He's dumped him into the middle of this parking lot of bulls.

I call and whistle. Mack won't know where I am, and he'll be frantic. I am frantic as I begin to run, my wet towel lost on the pavement, my duffel banging against my back. "Mack! Mack! Come, boy. Mack!" My mouth dries out and I can't whistle anymore.

Mack is obedient; if he hears me, he'll come like a shot. He's not the type of dog that would wander around; he'll be looking for me, his nose to the ground, maybe heedless of the danger of being in this active parking lot. All of a sudden, it seems like every truck in this parking lot starts its motor in a cacophony of diesel. Mack can't hear me over the noise; I bend to peer beneath the behemoths, looking and looking for the flash of white and gray that will be Mack. I can't find him. I stop dead in the path of a moving truck. The driver slides a hand out his window, waving me across the lane.

Okay. If Mack isn't here, then Artie still has him. I circle the TA building. Artie's yanking my chain. If he's still got Mack, then Artie hasn't gone anywhere. He's not going to do that. He's got to be here. If he's back on the road, there's no way he's going to turn around and come back; the time he'd lose in playing me would be too precious.

But there are no trucks on the other side of the building, just family cars, a horse trailer, and a Harley with a one-legged rider parked in a handicapped spot.

"Have you seen a dog? A Sheltie? Gray with black streaks. White ruff? One blue eye and one brown eye?" I keep talking, as if adding to the description will make the answer become yes.

The one-legged rider shakes his head, which is swathed in a filthy red bandanna. "Nope. Sorry. This is a tough place to lose a dog." Like a lot of the rugged men I meet, he has a sympathetic voice, which does not match his tough appearance.

I collapse onto a bench in front of the building, all the strength in my legs gone, my heart thumping with a disconcerting loudness. I fight back the tears. In my experience, tears have never been useful, neither relieving pain nor offering comfort once shed. What I need is a plan. I need to stop Artie.

Artie has driven off with Mack.

* * *

Mack sleeps with his brushy tail curled up over his pointy nose. Tucked up like this, he's a small package of dog, burrowed into the sleeping bag Justine has left unrolled on the bunk behind the driver's seat. He's quite pleased to wait, dozing, waking, dozing, for the people to return to the truck. There might be a taste of something good as a reward for being quiet and patient.

This mobile living is a bit boring, but he is satisfied with the almost constant presence of his Justine. Usually he has to doze, wake, doze for a long time every day until Justine comes back from her day away from him, smelling of beer and fried food. He loves that smell; once, when she took him with her to work, just to pick up her check, he immediately recognized the place as where she went during the day. The lovely odors defining her away time and making it comprehensible to him. Who wouldn't want to be in a place that smelled like burgers?

When only Artie got back into the cab, Mack merely opened one eye. He isn't a big fan of the guy, but that's mostly because of the stink of his cigarettes and the fact that the man ignores him. Mack is more accustomed to having Justine's males be friendly, sometimes even presenting offerings. Good stuff, like rawhide chews and squeaky toys. This guy just talks and smokes and, once in a while, gets too close to Justine. That's when Mack will find a reason to squeeze himself onto Justine's lap. No need to show teeth, just be there, a reminder that he is in charge, that she is his person.

Artie lights up another cigarette, not even rolling the window down to release the smoke. Mack tucks his nose deeper under his tail, his jack-in-the-pulpit ears turning like miniature radar detectors to catch the sound of Justine's feet on the pavement. Artie drums on the steering wheel, fidgets with the arrangement of knickknacks on the dashboard, cranks down his window, and ejects the butt of his cigarette. "Goddamn. She's pushin' me."

Mack keeps still. He wishes Artie would be quiet so that he can listen better for Justine. The dog lifts his head to sniff the air as the window goes down, but the cigarette stink is an impenetrable barrier, obscuring even the fresh air outside, and Artie's head blocks his view. She'll come. Justine will be back. She always comes back.

The first day that he lived with Justine, he learned that lesson. A mere baby, a pup of few weeks, he'd been taken away from his mother, his littermates, and the only human hands he'd ever known. He was boxed and carried to Justine. When she took him up and rubbed her inadequate human nose against his pointy one, he fell in love. And then she left him, putting him back in the box that would be his cave, his home, until he outgrew it. Then she came back and let him out. Fed him, cuddled him on the couch, named him. He never worried about her absence again.

Mack is startled back into full awareness as Artie hollers a stream of tongue language that Mack doesn't recognize word for word, but he gets the meaning. The man is angry. There is no one here for him to be angry at, unless he's angry at him, so Mack shrinks even more into the dim closet of a bunk. Suddenly, Artie starts the truck, and the rumbling vibration of the big engine fills the air. The gears grind and the truck moves forward. Justine isn't here. Maybe Artie is going to find her. Mack's soft whine is shadowed by the sound of the diesel engine. They pull away from the other trucks and shoot down the TA access road. In a minute, they are back on the highway. Justine is not there.


"You don't have his plate number? I can't have every truck with a green cab stopped before it leaves Ohio. I'm sorry about your dog. If the guy gets pulled over, we can maybe get the dog."

I hang up before the state trooper can give me any more bad news. They can't, or won't, help track down Artie. I've called Artie's cell eighteen times, but he won't answer. If he did, I wouldn't ask him to do anything but leave Mack where I can pick him up, maybe at another TA, or a vet not far off the road. But Artie sees my number and ignores me. I don't exist for him anymore.

I need a ride. I need to catch up with Artie. Feeling like a tramp, I start talking to the truckers arrayed around the counter like piglets on a sow. "No can do." "Against the rules of my company." "Back off; I'm a family man."

Soon enough, I attract the attention of the center's manager, who gives me the look. I hold my hands up in the universal sign of "no harm" and move away from the truckers.

Families are tucking into the all-you-can-eat brunch. I sit alone at a table a mere three feet from a likely-looking group: mom and dad, two chunky preschoolers, and a grandma. "Nice day. Where you headed?" Nice, ordinary midwestern friendliness, nothing scary here.

"We're headed down to Disney."

That's east enough for me. Maybe they can get me as far as New York before they head south down 95.

"What'll you have?" The waitress is looming over me. The seventeen-inch-tall multipage plastic menu is still flat on the table.

Hungry I'm not, but I need to look like a customer. I order two eggs and bacon, white toast, coffee. I think that I'm going to hurl. I smile at the family beside me. "I'm heading east, too. Any chance you've got room for a passenger? I'll pay your gas."


Excerpted from The Dog Who Danced by Susan Wilson. Copyright © 2012 Susan Wilson. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Susan Wilson is the author of bestselling novel One Good Dog as well as five other novels. She lives on Martha's Vineyard.

Susan Wilson is the bestselling author of books including One Good Dog, Cameo Lake and Beauty, a modern retelling of Beauty and the Beast, which was made into a CBS-TV movie. She lives on Martha’s Vineyard.

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The Dog Who Danced 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 32 reviews.
PaulineMA More than 1 year ago
Susan Wilson is brilliant! We have all grieved through losses in our life. Justine seems to bring on some of this grief herself. The Parmalees are broken, going through their day to day existence. Mack is the common denominator. Wilson is honest in revealing the faults of the characters in The Dog Who Danced. Like all of us, Justine is not perfect, she struggles with life decisions. She does what she thinks is best and yet it never is. Mack is anchor in her life. No story spoilers here though, I'll let you enjoy the rollercoaster of emotion this book brings. It starts so dark that I almost felt troubled reading it. Stick with it, you won't be sorry or disappointed. This book is for everyone, not just dog lovers. It's about human spirit and inner strength.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read, One Good Dog, by Susan Wislon some time ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. The Dog Who Danced is equallly as good. The story is told from the perspectives of both the owner and the dog....rather an interesting technique. I am a very fussy reader and would recommend this book to all who enjoy a well written exciting story.
barbferggy More than 1 year ago
This book was awesome! Love buddy/mack! It brought out a lot of emotions in this book! There isn't enough stars to give to this book. Great book!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Loved the story line - loved the mix of characters - truly felt their emotions (and Mack's/Buddy's).
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read this book beause I throughly loved "One Good Dog" by this same author. The way she tells the story from the main character's and the dogs view is very enjoyable read. I recommend this book to all dog lovers.
Yvonne35 More than 1 year ago
Well written. Will probably read again, which I seldom do.
Trishacl More than 1 year ago
This was an outstanding book. I opened it up at the airport on Friday and had a hard time putting it down. The story was an unforgetable story of redemption-Justine not only trying to find her dog but also herself. The characters were real and human, the situations believable and vivid. I don't want to give away the ending, but to the extent possible everyone was a winner.
dhaupt More than 1 year ago
An unexpected call has Justine Meade grateful for a shotgun seat on a semi heading towards a home she hasn’t seen since she left at seventeen because it means that her dog Mack is with her. Mack has been her salvation and made her look at life in a better way than the defeatist, betrayed way she used to when all she could think of was the loss of her childhood then later the loss of her son. The dog who learned to dance with her has been much more than a mere pet which is why she’s overwrought as she finds herself abandoned and dog-less by the trucker she hitched a ride with. Ed and Alice Parmalee have been imitating life for the seven years since the death of their only child, a child that was prayed for then delayed until neither of them thought it was ever going to happen and then took away at fifteen, it was a tragedy that shook them to the core and that has been an invisible barrier between them ever since until the day a stray dog comes into their lives and puts color and connection back into their world. In the midst of a family crisis Justine frantically tries to find Mack with the help of a few friends and many strangers while the Parmalees are reconnecting with the help of one small furry miracle and who know nothing about the dog’s distraught owner. There are many dog stories out there, those who heal, those who protect, those who comfort, what makes this story different is the poignant way that Susan Wilson brings it to life with her words. Her characters are all three dimensional, so realistic that I could smell the earth at Stacy’s grave and could feel the wind in my face as she takes Justine down the highway on the back of a Harley. The dialogue is a mesmerizing string of monologues that took me into the hearts and souls of the narrator, that made me a fly on the walls of their worlds and that gave me insights that I wish they would convey to each other. And then there was Mack, who Susan gave a voice to as well and who’s expertise in translating dog really shines through, it was amusing, it was touching and it was beautifully penned. This is the story of rejuvenation of forgiving of unconditional love. It’s the story of one woman’s best friend and the lengths she’ll go to get him back and it’s the unconditional love that one dog has for his human(s). This is my first foray into the writing brilliance of Susan Wilson but I guarantee it will not be my last. Thank you Ms. Wilson for one of the most heartwarming and inspiring stories I’ve read for a while.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
if you like art of the racing in the rain, you would love this story
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Read this in 3 nights.great story of loss and love and healing and that powerful bond of a good dog.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Loved reading this book, if you love dogs please read this one
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BamaBelle More than 1 year ago
Loved it! Dog and heroine are easy to root for. Bad guys make you want to smack them. Heart warming and healing.
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mkhooper More than 1 year ago
Anyone who has ever loved a dog or been lucky enough to have been loved by a dog will GET this book. Very enjoyable read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Good story and characters. Touching.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Unfortunately, I found this bookquite winded and filled with a bit too much detail. The idea of the story, as an animal lovercinteresred me. A girl with a special dog and her journey to get him back. At first in part one i was hooked....but honestly it could have ended shortly after. The rest I feel was predictable, long winded, slow and i found myself skipping pages. In doing so i didnt miss anything. Very dissapointed. Although i give the idea of the dog a thumbs up....i cant do so for this book .