Once more I find myself tackling the unenviable task of reviewing one of W. Bruce Cameron’s books. This one, My Three Dogs, has, like A Dog’s Purpose before it, been labeled an “instant classic,” which is impossible. To be a classic, something must withstand the test of time, which by the way, looking at him, Mr. Cameron certainly hasn’t. “Instant classic” is like saying “spontaneous glacial movement” or “instant security line at the airport.”
I’ve no doubt this latest novel will delight his fans, of which I’m definitely not one. Oh yes, it’s got three adorable dogs—an Australian Shepherd, a Jack Russell Terrier, and a Labradoodle—and both the breed characteristics and the individual personalities of the canines shine through in the book, which introduces us to the lovable pack and then bewilders them by separating the poor pooches from each other and their person. I found myself captivated, turning pages despite how much I loathe the author, rooting for Riggs the Aussie, with his herding instincts, his sense that the world needs order and that to be ordered his pack belongs together; and Luna, Jack Russell, for her high-energy intelligence and strategic planning; and goofy, silly, always willing to go along Archie, the young Labradoodle who craves human love.
My Three Dogs follows the lives of the canines as they are fostered out to separate families after a car accident takes their person, Liam, out of the picture.
I don’t want to plot spoil by telling you that the human stories are afflicted by miscommunication and good intentions and regrets as we follow the people as well as the dogs, so I’ll not get too deep into what happens with Liam. Suffice it to say, I was as taken with the human drama as I was by the plight of these dogs. This, to me, is one of the major flaws of the novel—some of us don’t want to care about human relationships. We don’t want to become passionately involved.
This book is thoroughly insightful as it delves into dog pack dynamics, the way the dogs relate to and depend on each other—something I’ve not encountered before in a major novel. There must be a reason for that, Mr. Cameron, a reason why nobody else has written anything quite like this before, and that reason is that nobody wants to read about such things.
I deeply resented the way the author, whose photographs reveal him to be a fool, caused me to laugh and then cry, my emotions callously manipulated by Cameron, who doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo that all the reading public wants is graphic novels about superheroes in tight outfits. He’s clearly incapable of writing anything but dog POV stories, of which he’s published what, twenty-eight? So yes, Cameron, you’ve had enough practice to perfect your trademark heartfelt fiction with tense plot lines and lovable dogs and imperfect humans. But what gives you the right to keep doing it?
If you’re ever kidnapped at gunpoint and forced to listen to an interview with this author (something no sane person would do voluntarily, so it would have to be under threat of violence) you’ll hear that he loves dogs and studies their actions to learn how they think, and so what? Judging by his waistline he obviously loves desserts, does he know the “thinking” of a chocolate cake? Can he describe how a brownie “feels?” My advice, tell the kidnappers to pull the trigger so you don’t have to listen to him.
Just because My Three Dogs is compelling, tense, uplifting and way too full of dogs, not just the three main characters but other realistic canines we meet along the journey, doesn’t mean people should read it. What if we’re not interested in being entertained? What if we don’t even like dogs? Cameron has nothing for us, in that case.
By the time Riggs escapes his new home, where the people are well-meaning but not suitable as dog owners, and makes his way to the streets to live among the feral dogs there, the reader is so captivated he’ll miss doctor appointments, job interviews, and his daughter’s wedding to find out what happens next. That’s what happened to me, anyway. The plight of Archie, adopted by a family whose circumstances abruptly change, haunted me even when I had put the book aside with a firm commitment to have Cameron’s books banned by the library. And I found myself ridiculously pinning my hopes on Luna, the Jack Russell, because she was so smart—much smarter than an average dog or the author. Finally, I became so attached to Archie I started calling my own dog Archie, as well as my wife—neither of whom were particularly amused.
If you want to be entertained, moved, touched, amused and enlightened, then read this poor excuse for a novel. If your tastes are more refined, skip this and read the owner’s manual for your dishwasher.
Oh, and if, for some random, psychotic-episode-related reason you want to help this author, you should pre-order the book, which assists stores in making the decision to stock it for other unwary readers.