Okay, my first posting was essentially a love letter to a golden I lost almost 2 years ago that still has me fully wrapped around the axle. Here's the real review: if the object of the writer is to inform or entertain and preferably both Abramson has come up woefully short. Jill, if you're listening you need to do more than put a cute photo on the dustjacket. Endless pages about the price of Purina Pro chow do not a book make. Most grating were her opinions on special services such as canine aquatic sessions and dogwalkers which she deemed too costly to be regularly scheduled events. C'mon, you have a country house in Connecticut and a loft in Tribeca and you're whimpering about shelling out $30 for you dog to swim in a heated pool in the winter? In my opinion, the basic shortcoming of the book is that the dog remains a dog on every single page - absolutely no anthropomorphism which is key to engaging the reader. We want to be regaled with stunning feats of bad behavior (a la Marley) that has the owner clamboring to be included in a witness protection program. There is one thing that does set this book apart and that is that the dog doesn't die at the end. Wish I could say as much for this dismal book.
Mind numbingly dull read about a golden retriever puppy. Perhaps I'm jaded but I prefer my canine chronicles to include a significant amount of bad-assery. All the goldens I've had have been totally unbridled id taking more house tours than a busy real estate agent. A few examples: a lovely gentleman approaches me on my Sunday morning walk. He points at my golden and says, "is that your dog?" Having had this dog for several years it was with great trepidation that I responded yes. He then says, "Did he have a wager on the Derby?" Total confusion on my part. He explains, "well, your dog came up our drive, through our back door, found me in my third floor study, jumped up on my couch, ate all my Spanish peanuts, watched the race, licked my hand and left." Another incident involved my golden crashing a summer cocktail reception, knocking over a couple tables before running upstairs and quickly high-tailing it out with a baseball in his mouth. Turns out it was personally signed by some baseball great heretofore safely housed in a lucite display case. By the time I pryed it out of his mouth, the signature was smeared beyond all recognition. Handing this saliva covered ball back was an absolutely magical way to make a new friend. My personal favorite? My golden inviting himself into a neighbor's home and wandering up to the second floor where he enjoyed a lovely drink out of their master bathroom toilet. I can still see their cleaning woman chasing him out with a broom and running after him hurling expletives in Spanish. They say there are no bad dogs, just bad owners. Bad owner here. Abramson is a highly responsible dog owner and she's boring as hell. 'Nuf said.