The Dog Who Danced: A novel

The Dog Who Danced: A novel

by Susan Wilson


$15.80 $16.99 Save 7% Current price is $15.8, Original price is $16.99. You Save 7%.
View All Available Formats & Editions
Eligible for FREE SHIPPING
  • Want it by Wednesday, September 26  Order now and choose Expedited Shipping during checkout.
    Same Day shipping in Manhattan. 
    See Details


The Dog Who Danced: A novel by Susan Wilson

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?

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781250023285
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication date: 06/18/2013
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 336
Sales rank: 192,020
Product dimensions: 5.70(w) x 8.04(h) x 0.88(d)

About the Author

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

Read an Excerpt




“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.

Copyright © 2012 by Susan Wilson

Reading Group Guide

1. Justine Meade has bounced around the country a good part of her life. How much of her transient lifestyle do you think is directly attributable to her upbringing and how much is simply who she is?

2. What influence, if any, does the loss of her son have on Justine's devotion to Mack?

3. Justine is one of those women who seem to go from boyfriend to boyfriend. Why do you think she has attachment issues?

4. The Parmalees and Justine have each suffered a loss. Are there parallels between their stories?

5. At which point in the story did you root for one outcome over another, and why? Did you feel that Mack deserved one family over the other?

6. Did Artie get the comeuppance he deserved? Why or why not?

7. In what ways does Mitch earn Justine's trust? When did Mitch earn the trust of the reader?

8. How much about humans' grief, anger, joy, and regret do you think dogs understand? Have you ever had an experience that made you believe dogs know more than we think they know?

9. How did Mack's dancing effect and transform Justine? How did it do so to the Parmalees? What does Mack's dancing represent to each of them? To you?

10. At the end of the book, all three human characters have emerged with new perspectives on their pasts and their lives. What have they learned? And what has Buddy/ Mack learned?

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

The Dog Who Danced 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 34 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
Anonymous 7 days ago
A beautiful engaging, heartfelt story of love and loss, forgiveness, and grace.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great story!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Very emotional read. I highly recommend reading this with your dog lying next to you. It will remind you to cherish your pup always.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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.