The Second-Chance Dog: A Love Story [NOOK Book]

Overview

From New York Times bestselling author Jon Katz comes a wise, uplifting, and poignant memoir of finding love against all odds, and the power of second chances for both people and dogs.
 
?I had no idea that Frieda would enter my life and alter it in the most profound way, but that?s one of the beautiful things about animals. They change you, and you almost never see it ...
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The Second-Chance Dog: A Love Story

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Overview

From New York Times bestselling author Jon Katz comes a wise, uplifting, and poignant memoir of finding love against all odds, and the power of second chances for both people and dogs.
 
“I had no idea that Frieda would enter my life and alter it in the most profound way, but that’s one of the beautiful things about animals. They change you, and you almost never see it coming.”
 
In 2007, a few years after purchasing Bedlam Farm in upstate New York, Jon Katz met Maria Wulf, a quiet, sensitive artist hoping to rekindle her creative spark. Jon, like her, was introspective yet restless, a writer struggling to find his purpose. He felt a connection with her immediately, but a formidable obstacle stood in the way: Maria’s dog, Frieda.
 
A rottweiler-shepherd mix who had been abandoned by her previous owner in the Adirondacks, where she lived in the wild for several years, Frieda was ferociously protective and barely tamed. She roared and charged at almost anyone who came near. But to Maria, Frieda was sweet and loyal, her beloved guard dog and devoted friend. And so Jon quickly realized that to win over Maria, he’d have to gain Frieda’s affection as well.
 
While he and Maria grew closer, Jon was having a tougher time charming Frieda to his side. Even after many days spent on Bedlam Farm, Frieda still lunged at the other animals, ran off into the woods, and would not let Jon come near her, even to hook on her leash. Yet armed with a singular determination, unlimited patience, and five hundred dollars’ worth of beef jerky, Jon refused to give up on Frieda—or on his chance with Maria.
 
Written with stunning emotional clarity and full of warm yet practical wisdom, The Second-Chance Dog is a testament to how animals can make us better people, and how it’s never too late to find love.

Praise for The Second-Chance Dog
 
“No one speaks the language of a dog like best-selling author Jon Katz. His latest heartwarming memoir about finding love after struggling through a broken relationship . . . gives testament to how dogs can make us better human beings.”The Free Lance–Star

“[An] intimate story of falling in love with a woman and her extremely protective pet dog . . . Bittersweet in its telling, Katz reminds readers of the importance of human and animal connections.”Kirkus Reviews
 
“In this heartwarming story of love and redemption . . . dogs and humans alike get second chances at life, love, and growth. . . . This moving work is recommended for readers who want a true-life love story, for dog lovers seeking a book with a happy ending (the dog doesn’t die!), for seniors who think that receiving a Medicare card means that love is out of the question, and for dog trainers who want to learn more about Katz’s philosophy of dog training.”Library Journal

“The story [Katz] tells gives hope that no animal is beyond help, as long as enough love and patience are thrown in.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune


From the Hardcover edition.
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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble

When Listening to Dogs author Jon Katz met artist and fellow canine lover Marta Wulf, it seemed almost instantly like a perfect match. The two shared a love for quiet country life, but there was apparently one immovable obstacle to their relationship: Marta's dog Frieda. This Rottweiler-shepherd had lived in the wilds for several years and like many other rescues, was fiercely protective of their owner and intensely suspicious of outsiders, even if they were famous pet book authors. The Second-Chance Dog is the story of how one persistent suitor conquered all resistance. Now in trade paperback and NOOK Book. (Spoiler alert: Katz, Wulf, and their respective pooches are now one happy family.)

Library Journal
11/01/2013
In this heartwarming story of love and redemption intertwined with a primer of author Katz's (The New Work of Dogs: Tending to Life, Love, and Family) philosophy of dog training, dogs and humans alike get second chances at life, love, and growth. A mistreated, abandoned, and seemingly untrainable former junkyard dog, Frieda is transformed into a docile family member through the persistence of a man who's in love with the woman who adopted the dog. This is also the story of how two broken individuals—Maria Wulf, a struggling, insecure artist whose marriage was falling apart and whose career was stalled, and Katz, aging, divorced, and battling his own demons of panic, depression, and self-doubt—found true love, healing, happiness, and a new outlook on life. VERDICT This moving work is recommended for readers who want a true-life love story, for dog lovers seeking a book with a happy ending (the dog doesn't die!), for seniors who think that receiving a Medicare card means that love is out of the question, and for dog trainers who want to learn more about Katz's philosophy of dog training.—Florence Scarinci, Nassau Community Coll. Lib., Garden City, NY
From the Publisher
Praise for The Second-Chance Dog
 
“No one speaks the language of a dog like best-selling author Jon Katz. His latest heartwarming memoir about finding love after struggling through a broken relationship . . . gives testament to how dogs can make us better human beings.”The Free Lance–Star

“[An] intimate story of falling in love with a woman and her extremely protective pet dog . . . Bittersweet in its telling, Katz reminds readers of the importance of human and animal connections.”Kirkus Reviews
 
“In this heartwarming story of love and redemption . . . dogs and humans alike get second chances at life, love, and growth. . . . This moving work is recommended for readers who want a true-life love story, for dog lovers seeking a book with a happy ending (the dog doesn’t die!), for seniors who think that receiving a Medicare card means that love is out of the question, and for dog trainers who want to learn more about Katz’s philosophy of dog training.”Library Journal

“The story [Katz] tells gives hope that no animal is beyond help, as long as enough love and patience are thrown in.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune

Praise for Jon Katz
 
“With wisdom and grace, Katz unlocks the canine soul and the complicated wonders that lie within and offers powerful insights to anyone who has ever struggled with, and loved, a troubled animal.”—John Grogan, author of Marley & Me
 
“Katz’s world—of animals and humans and their combined generosity of spirit—is a place you’re glad you’ve been.”—The Boston Globe
 
“From Toto to Marley, our canine friends are a sure bet in the literary biz. But no one seems to speak their language like Jon Katz.”—San Antonio Express-News
 
“Katz proves himself a Thoreau for modern times as he ponders the relationships between man and animals, humanity and nature.”—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
 
“I toss a lifetime award of three liver snaps to Jon Katz.”—Maureen Corrigan, National Public Radio’s Fresh Air

Kirkus Reviews
2013-10-01
Best-selling author Katz (Going Home: Finding Peace When Pets Die, 2012, etc.) brings readers the intimate story of falling in love with a woman and her extremely protective pet dog. "There was me, sixty-one, broke and bewildered," writes Katz, the prolific author of books about pets and, in particular, dogs. "And there was Maria, a sad, brooding fiber artist in her forties…seeking to find her lost creative soul…and finally there was Frieda, aka "the Helldog," a Rottweiler-shepherd mix who had been cruelly abandoned." What starts out as a story of despair--for Katz and Maria, as their respective long-term marriages fell apart, and for Frieda, who was raised as a guard dog and then abandoned only to spend years living in the wild--turns to joy as faith, trust, friendship and love replace fear, extreme panic attacks and an overprotectiveness bordering on dangerous. Nearly 20 years older than Maria, Katz felt a sense of urgency to create a life with her and Frieda, but he tamed his desperate need to love and be loved and learned that infinite patience would finally win the hearts of woman and canine. With Maria, he expressed tenderness and an awareness of her stalwart desire for independence--yet he was persistent in his marriage proposals. With Frieda, hundreds of pounds of beef jerky, steady training and an understanding of the dog's past experiences helped create a bond that allowed Katz to move closer to both dog and the woman he felt was his soul mate. "The poet Rumi says to gamble everything for love if you're a true human being," he writes. "We did. We are." Bittersweet in its telling, Katz reminds readers of the importance of human and animal connections.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345545558
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 11/12/2013
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 288
  • Sales rank: 78,322
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Jon Katz
Jon Katz has written twenty-five books, including works of nonfiction, novels, short stories, and books for children; he is also a photographer. He has written for The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Slate, Rolling Stone, and the AKC Gazette, and has worked for CBS News, The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, and The Philadelphia Inquirer. He lives on Bedlam Farm, in upstate New York, with his wife, the artist Maria Wulf, and their dogs, donkeys, barn cats, sheep, and chickens.

Biography

"I really don't know anyone in media who's been given the freedom I've had to spout off on a wide range of subjects," Jon Katz wrote in his 1998 farewell column for HotWired. As a writer for web venues such as HotWired and Slashdot, Katz has waxed enthusiastic about Internet culture and championed "geek life." As a contributor to Wired and Rolling Stone, he's written articles on technology, politics and culture. And as a book author, he's penned mystery novels, memoirs and more, at the rate of nearly one per year since 1990.

Katz began his career in traditional media, as a reporter and editor for the Boston Globe and Washington Post and as a producer for the CBS Morning News. His experiences in television became fodder for fiction in his first novel, Sign Off, which Publishers Weekly called "an absorbing, well-paced debut" about the corporate takeover of a television network.

Disenchanted with the world of old media, Katz signed on to the cyber-revolution as a contributor to Wired magazine and its then-online counterpart, HotWired. As pundit and media critic, Katz became a prominent voice of the libertarian, countercultural, freewheeling spirit that prevailed on the Web in its early years. After HotWired underwent a corporate transformation, Katz moved to Slashdot, a free-for-all e-zine that allowed him to continue spouting off on a wide range of subjects (for Katz, "open source" is not just a method of software development, it's a metaphor for free expression).

Meanwhile, Katz began a series of "suburban detective" books featuring private investigator and family man Kit DeLeeuw, who operates out of a New Jersey mall. The intricately plotted mysteries serve as "a framework for the author's musings on suburban fatherhood, a subject on which he is wise and witty and honestly touching," wrote Marilyn Stasio in The New York Times.

In 1997, Katz's digital-age pontifications took book form in Virtuous Reality, which tackled censorship, online privacy and the shortcomings of the media. Katz struck a more personal chord with Geeks (2000), a work of gonzo ethnography that follows two computer-obsessed teenagers and their struggle to escape the Idaho boonies. "Katz's obvious empathy and love for his 'lost boys,' his ability to see shades of his own troubled youth in their tough lives, gives his narrative a rich taste that makes it unlike other Net books," said Salon writer Andrew Leonard.

Katz turned to himself as the subject for a meditation on middle age, Running to the Mountain (2000) which chronicles the three months he spent alone in a dilapidated cabin in upstate New York. The result is "a funny, moving and triumphant voyage of the soul," according to The Boston Globe.

Then there's Katz's other pet subject: dogs. In A Dog Year , Katz writes about a high-strung border collie -- a canine "lost boy" he adopted and gradually bonded with. "Dogs make me a better human," said Katz in an interview. Given his recent contributions to The Bark magazine, dogs may make Katz an even more versatile and prolific writer, if that's possible.

Good To Know

Katz is so persuaded of the power of interactivity that he's refused to have his work printed by publishers unless they'll run his e-mail address with it. His published e-mail addresses include jonkatz@slashdot.org, jonkatz@bellatlantic.net and jonkatz3@comcast.net.

After a Slate writer made a disparaging comment about Katz's basement, Katz wrote a column describing the basement office where he works. Its accoutrements include a wooden cherub, portraits of Thomas Paine and Abraham Lincoln, and a collection of gargoyles. A Haitian voodoo "frame thingy" (in Katz's words) graces his computer.

In our interview, Katz told us more fun facts: "I see every movie that comes out, usually alone in a megaplex. I love the New York Yankees because they win a lot. My one brilliant move in life was marrying my wife Paula."

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    1. Hometown:
      Montclair, New Jersey
    1. Date of Birth:
      August 8, 1947
    2. Place of Birth:
      Providence, Rhode Island
    1. Education:
      Attended George Washington University and The New School for Social Research

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

The Dog Who Kept Men Away

I heard the barking as soon as I pulled into the gravel driveway of the sprawling old farmhouse on a country road about five miles from my farm.

The noise was coming not from the house but from a barn behind it.

It was the deep-throated, door-rattling roar of the guard dog, and there was something undeniably frightening about it. A dog with a voice like that had to be huge and powerful. I had never heard a roar quite like it. None of my dogs ever barked in such a furious, almost panicked way. It was a bark to be taken seriously, very seriously, and I was reminded of the raptor in Jurassic Park busting out of its prison.

I was not looking for trouble from a dog. My life, at this point, was in upheaval. I was spectacularly disconnected from the world and attempting to stave off a crack-up. I tried to soothe my internal turmoil by focusing on fixing up my collapsing Civil War–­era farm and barns, at least three of which were about to topple over into the road. Barns were collapsing and being torn down all over Washington County, New York, where I lived, but I was determined that my four would be saved. This project was horrifically expensive and complicated, but I couldn’t bear to see these beautiful old structures disintegrate.

I wanted some old windows to put in one side of my big dairy barn so that the grand old red silo housed inside the barn (an unusual feature) could be seen from outside. No real farmer would consider such an insane thing. But at the time, I was not sane. An HBO film crew had just finished making a movie of my trek upstate, and the very air was suffused with unreality.

So, I had come to this place because I’d been told that the couple restoring this farmhouse had some old windows. A thin, wiry woman with short brown hair, wearing tattered jeans, a paint-splattered shirt, and sandals, came out of the door and approached me. As we stood in the drive, she began urging the dog to calm down. “Ssssssh, Frieda, quiet,” she said. Her voice was so soft and tentative I knew she didn’t really mean it, and the dog surely knew she didn’t. She was concerned that I might be frightened, but I can tell when somebody means to change a dog’s behavior and when they don’t.

“We can’t have many people over.” She smiled, tilting her head back toward the frenzied roaring and charging coming from the small barn.

There was something melancholy about this woman. She was so quiet and reserved. She shyly explained that she and her husband were living in a small barn while they fixed up the farmhouse close by. “Who is that?” I asked, gesturing toward the barn, whose door was still rattling from the force of the dog inside throwing herself against it.

“That’s Frieda,” she said, surprising me with a radiant smile.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Jon.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m Maria. I have to confess,” she continued, “I haven’t read any of your books.” She was small, frail, almost elfin. But I knew I saw some humor in her eyes, attitude, pride. She was restoring houses with her husband, she said, adding almost under her breath that she was also an artist.

“That’s okay, most people haven’t. Anyway, I can give you one,” I said, reaching into the car. I had brought a paperback with me.

I don’t know why I’d brought a copy of that book—it was The Dogs of Bedlam Farm—for Maria. She looked at it and laughed, and would soon put it aside.

Maria invited me into the barn, into the small room she was living in while working on the farmhouse. I hesitated.

I’m not afraid of dogs generally, of course, but I know that in certain situations protective dogs will defend their people and territory. And Maria did not seem strong or clear with Frieda. I could see that Frieda had not been trained, as Maria had no commands to which the dog readily responded. She just got more excited when Maria spoke to her. When people really want their dogs to behave differently, they’re usually more forceful. I have always believed that people get the dogs they need.

Maria needed a guard dog, it seemed. I thought there must be some fear in her. She explained that Frieda did not like men. Okay, I thought, so she needed a guard dog who did not like men.

But I wasn’t sure I needed Frieda. She was giving me that unmistakable look of the territorial dog: eyes locked on me, ears back, tail down, body stiff. I had expected to pick up the old windows and leave. But that afternoon, I found myself wanting to talk to Maria. There was something very warm about her. I felt a connection I had not felt in so long I barely recognized it. I wanted to know more, to see what was behind those sad and sweet eyes. My farm is in a remote part of upstate New York, and I had not made many friends there. My wife at the time was living in New Jersey, and our visits to see each other were becoming less frequent. It was sometimes lonely. Actually, it was always lonely.

We walked to the barn, and the roaring got even louder. Maria opened the door ahead of me, and I could see her lean over a large brown-and-black mixed-breed dog and pull her back into the corner. The roaring subsided for a bit, and then resumed from the corner. Frieda wasn’t trying to charge me; she just clearly wanted me to go away. She was more anxious than aggressive.

I could see right away that Frieda—a rottweiler-shepherd rescue—was like others I had met: loving and devoted to their humans, but ferociously protective of them. Because I write about dogs, people are sometimes embarrassed when I meet theirs. They suspect I am judging them, and they apologize. The dog was abused, the dog was abandoned, the dog is sweet and good, just overprotective in some situations.

Maria apologized for Frieda’s barking. She had never really trained her, she said, but it didn’t seem to me that Maria was too bothered by Frieda’s loud vigilance.

Still, I have studied attachment theory for years, written books about it, lived it in my own life. It is a prescient window into the lives of some people, how they are with their dogs, how their dogs are with them. Something powerful connected these two.

I looked around the barn. I could see that Maria and her husband were living an ascetic life. No computer. Few possessions. Nothing new or fancy. A spartan place, almost monastic. Lots of books and magazines. No junk or clutter. Different from my life, filled as it was with rolling chaos.

Maria repeated that she couldn’t really have many visitors. And she didn’t trust Frieda outside, either, around people or other dogs. “I take her for long walks in the woods,” she said, “but it’s just us.” Maria didn’t think Frieda was trainable because of the dog’s history, and because she was so wild.

She had adopted Frieda from a local animal shelter, where she had been kept for nearly a year. All the shelter workers knew about Frieda was that she was a healthy female (the shelter had spayed her) who had been captured in the southern Adirondacks after a year-long pursuit by one of their animal control officers.

I have kept away from dogs like Frieda all of my life, and would never have considered adopting one or taking one home. For me, dogs are about people, mixing with them, living among them. I would not want a dog that people were afraid of, that you had to watch every second. And looking at Frieda, whose barking had now morphed into a low, menacing growl, I was definitely wary of her.

But I had seen this type of situation before. Sensitive people (often, but not always, women) empathized with dogs who would be put to sleep if they were not adopted, who desperately needed homes. And I knew there was often something else going on. Perhaps a wish to be protected? A complicated childhood? A desire to withdraw from the world? A need to nurture? All of the above? None of the above?

“What made you adopt her?” I asked. The answer would tell me a lot about this woman, and I almost always ask it of people I meet with big, scary dogs.

“Oh, I just thought she was so cute,” she said. I smiled.

I moved a couple of feet inside the barn, and when Frieda roared and growled, I moved back again.

So there it was, the beginning of my fairy tale, the kind of story men my age are not supposed to dream of anymore.

This is the story of an aging and troubled man yearning for love and knowing it will never come, a troubled artist who had given up her art and lost her voice, and a courageous, fiercely loyal wild dog abandoned by a bad man and left to fend for herself in the Adirondack wilderness.

There was me, sixty-one, broke and bewildered, beginning to see that his thirty-five-year marriage was falling apart, living alone on a farm in a poor and remote corner of upstate New York with a bunch of animals.

And there was Maria, a sad, brooding fiber artist in her forties, nearing the end of a twenty-year marriage, seeking to find her lost creative soul.

And finally there was Frieda, a.k.a. “the Helldog,” a rottweiler-shepherd mix who had been cruelly abandoned and spent years living in the wild.

And what in the world could possibly bind these three completely disparate and seemingly so utterly different beings? The thing that makes any good fairy tale work: we were looking for love. We were looking to be saved from an empty life. We were seeking that rarest of miracles, a second chance.

Maria and I have talked many times about our first meeting. We both remember how easy it was to talk to each other. We felt comfortable with each other. I had many people in my life and was comfortable with few of them. Maria had few people in her life and was not often at ease with any of them.

I know that many people are uncomfortable around me; I have learned this. I make people nervous because I’m restless, because I often focus in on people like the reporter I was for so long, because, without knowing it, I’m almost viscerally compelled to talk about things most people don’t really want to talk about. I don’t mean to behave this way, but I know I do. I don’t like chitchat. I don’t let sleeping dogs lie. I have made very few good friends in my life, for various reasons, and until recently, most of them have simply gone away.

I didn’t feel so restless with Maria. If I was crazy or intense, she didn’t seem to notice or mind. Apart from worrying that Frieda would tear me to bits, I didn’t sense any discomfort at all.

Our lives in the country offered easy ways to get to know each other. We met again, soon after, by a neighbor’s burn pile, where anybody in the neighborhood could bring their scrap to burn. The same friend who’d first told me about Maria had called both of us and told us the burn pile would be going and then told each of us the other was coming. When you brought wood and junk to a burn pile, you had to sit there until the fire had burned down. It was common to arrange for some company, as the process could take hours. I called Maria and told her I was coming and offered to bring hot chocolate. It was nearly freezing. She said she would be there.

Maria and I hauled over our logs and brush, and sat by the fire. I’d brought her some books by writers I loved—Jane Smiley, Annie Proulx, Anita Brookner. She already owned the Smiley and Proulx, took the Brookner.

It was so easy to talk to her.

We talked about everything: books, dogs, art.

“Why aren’t you making art?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Nobody would want it,” she said. She made quilts from recycled fabrics, and many people in the art world didn’t consider that art. I knew what she meant. Lots of people in the publishing world didn’t consider dog books literature, either.

I did most of the talking, but she listened, curious, sometimes tilting her head at an odd angle.

I got the sense that she was unhappy with her life.

Mostly, that evening by the fire, we talked about dogs. We were both in long marriages, and had anyone suggested to either of us that we would one day not be in those marriages, we would have fainted dead away. Both of us. I never once thought I would get divorced. I said a million times that no matter what happened, I would never get divorced. Maria often said the same thing.

Dogs do not understand things like marriage and divorce; nor are they interested in the twists and turns of the human psyche. Frieda was very nervous around me that day, as well as protective of Maria. I could see it. The panting, the eyes shifting back and forth, the squirming around, the growling. Even then, on that first day, when I was blind to so much, Frieda seemed to sense something happening. She reminded me of my border collies when they hear a storm approaching, many miles away, before I see any visible sign of it. Their eyes narrow, and they circle, whine, growl, and cannot find a place to alight. That was how Frieda behaved as I talked with Maria.

Given her fury, it was hard to get a really good look at this enormous dog, a menacing creature, wolflike and powerful. But every now and then, she would stop barking and look me up and down—and I saw that she had the sweetest brown eyes. I don’t know what Frieda was seeing when she looked at me that first day, but I do know she wanted it out of the house.

Maria and Frieda had connected on a very emotional level, each protecting the other, each feeling safe and grounded with the other. Those are the most powerful kinds of human-dog relationships. Also the most confusing.

I remember thinking this: Nobody ought to try to come between Maria and this dog. It never occurred to me for a second that I would be the one to attempt it.

Frieda, it seemed to me, did not know how to live in the world beyond Maria. She had no idea what her job or purpose was, and nobody had yet appeared who could teach her. How interesting, I thought. Because I was in exactly the same situation: at loose ends and purposeless. Looking back, I see that this was our first connection.

Maria was quiet, a good listener, and I enjoyed talking with her, but she was so reserved at times I wondered if she had trouble speaking. You know some people by what they say, and others by what they don’t say.

I asked her about it soon after we met, and she looked at me and her eyes filled with tears, and then I understood that she had a voice but had lost it somehow.

Maria said little about her life, nothing about her family or her marriage, even less about her art. She was from Long Island. She’d been an artist once but was not one now, and when she said that, she couldn’t hide the pain and sorrow in her eyes. This was one of the problems in my life. I never missed things like that. And I rarely let them go.

Sometimes, she said, it was the art world that made her uncomfortable. It was too commercial. “I wasn’t making anything good.” Sometimes, she said, it was because she was too busy working to restore houses—hard, physical work—and she didn’t have the time.


I told Maria that I thought Frieda might benefit from some basic grounding training, and I could see she was interested. I remember thinking how small a space that barn was for such a big and unnerving dog.

As I left the burn pile that night, I thanked Maria for the windows she had given me and we shook hands. I said we all ought to get together for dinner sometime. We exchanged telephone numbers. We seemed so very different, but I also thought she would make a great friend. That would be nice, but unlikely. Married men and married women don’t often become good friends with each other. I didn’t really think I would ever see her again.

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Sort by: Showing all of 9 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 10, 2013

    The Second Chance Dog - A Love Story was wonderful! I loved it

    The Second Chance Dog - A Love Story was wonderful! I loved it. I think it probably helps to have read some of Jon Katz previous books to get the full understanding of the story. But it is so well written I can see a newcomer to Jon Katz would love it too. He is a true story teller, and of course a lover of dogs and all animals. This story is so honest and sweet and especially lovely before Christmas.
    As Jon said, it really is a Christmas miracle!.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 10, 2013

    This book is a memoir about Jon, Maria and Freida the dog  all l

    This book is a memoir about Jon, Maria and Freida the dog  all looking for second chances at a better life and love

    The story is sweet and uplifting.  I love animals, so, I'm a sucker for any success story involving a wayword, dog.  A dog most would have given up on.  Despite the repetition in the book, it is a good read and quite enjoyable. 

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 10, 2013

    Everyone and everything deserves a second chance at love and life. A must read.

    If by chance I get to live a second life, let it be at Bedlam Farm

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 9, 2013

    I loved this book! I have read books written by Jon Katz for ye

    I loved this book! I have read books written by Jon Katz for years and this book is one of his best. Jon writes from his heart and soul and you can feel it in the pages, I didn't want to put the book down. I didn't want it to end either. The story revolves around Jon meeting the love of his life, Maria, and Marie's dog, Frieda.
    Frieda has lived a very harsh life and she hates everyone but Maria. Jon has to devise a way of relating to Frieda in order to win Maria's heart. This book will appeal to people of all ages, especially those who believe in second chances for people as well as animals. It is a perfect Christmas gift since it ends happily on Christmas Eve.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 17, 2014

    Animal Club

    On "Frozen" result 1. Hope to talk to you soon! ~Writergirl

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 15, 2014

    Very disappointing. Not particularly well-written, compared to M

    Very disappointing. Not particularly well-written, compared to Mr. Coren's other books. I live with 3 dogs and own and have read many of Mr. Coren's other books — all of which have been most helpful. I thought this book would be about dogs, but it isn't — at least not really. It is about Mr. Coren's developing relationship with the woman who became his second wife. I found it to be rather boring; i found myself skimming and hoping for things to get better. They didn't. However, I highly recommend Mr. Coren's other books, which are excellent.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 21, 2013

    Claire part two

    He held me close when my sister jessie ran in yelling a baby i see a baby girl i swear i jumped up and ran out out the trailer she was right there on a bench acrose the road was a baby girl and a note that read" please take care of my baby the disaer was too much i dont have the courage to stay on this earth please take care of her shes only two months and all of her stuff is in her bag god bless ur soul" wow thi was a hell of alot to take on for a fourteen year old " whats her name" jessie ask " idk jes hiw bout liz" jessie shook her head in agreement. Justice was behind me now and now i had anoter reason to live.( soory too short i know but want me to keep going tell me and next part on next result xoxo claire

    0 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 16, 2013

    Practice Pup Cave

    ~Comet &star

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 7, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

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