What do you think?
Rate this book


In the same vein as Marley and Me and My Dog Skip, this “mostly true” novel is at once a whimsical campfire mystery and a universal story about the friendship between a man and his dog.
Cormac, a golden retriever who has always been afraid of thunderstorms and lightning flashes, runs away one stormy night while his master is away.
So begins a strange adventure that lands Cormac in the back of a red pickup truck driven by a mysterious woman, takes him to a series of dog pounds and rescue shelters, and ultimately brings him to the suburbs of Connecticut. His owner, meanwhile, devastated by Cormac’s disappearance and trying to juggle a family, a book tour, and writing his new novel, becomes determined to solve the “dog-napping” case. With the help of the local veterinarian, bookstore colleagues, animal rescue employees, and old friends, he picks up on Cormac’s trail and watches his small-town community come together in search of his lost companion.
Inspired by real events, and embellished only to serve the story through the spirit of imagination, Brewer has, as he says, “mainly told the truth in this story of losing my good dog Cormac.”
Audio CD
First published September 28, 2007
When I say Fairhope is a small town in Alabama, think of art galleries and coffee shops and cafés and sailboats bobbing at anchor on Mobile Bay, beneath the high bluff upon which the town is perched. Think of flowers on the corners of brick-paved sidewalks, gnarly live oaks draped with Spanish moss, magnolias and tall pines swaying in waterfront breezes that smell faintly of fish and salt. Think of a bustling independent bookstore on the corner; and think of my sleepy bookstore with old and rare volumes just down the street. Think of twelve thousand residents and more published authors per capita than any other place in the country. Think of a new library that is the centerpiece of the town's architecture.
Now think about the world's handsomest and sweetest Golden Retriever, as smart as any four-year-old child, who answers to the name Cormac, and who lives on the outskirts of Fairhope in an aging farmhouse on an easy hill, with two acres to roam, complete with a barn and swimming pool. Think of what a great place this is from which to launch a red-haired dog's bizarre adventure.
Several of my customers at Over the Transom have heard me say that Cormac McCarthy's literary craftsmanship is unexcelled, have heard me preach that McCarthy's penchant for infusing violence with a love of language is exquisite. I believe, and have hand-sold the opinion, that Cormac McCarthy's unblinking eye catches man's blood-smeared meanness in the glaring light of his particular art and renders it required viewing. It occurred to me that Mr. McCarthy might not be flattered to share his name with such a sweet, doe-eyed fellow as the Golden Retriever in the back seat of my Jeep. But, if Cormac McCarthy knew that I was a bookseller specializing in used and rare volumes, that I'd invested $750 for a first edition of Blood Meridian, then perhaps he might not judge his name taken in vain.
Ah, so much good writing, so little time. The great writers I love to read were an influence on my writing, but they also kept me from trying my own hand at fiction. Gabriel García Márquez, William Faulkner, Cormac McCarthy. I stood in stunned awe of their work. What was the point? If I couldn't write that well, why spend the ink?