a three dog life

The best book I have read this year--by far--is A Three Dog Life by Abigail Thomas. Stephen King, in his blurb on the front of the book, said it was "a punch to the heart" and it is. At the same time, it's so honest and true that you laugh while crying. Or cry while laughing. Or just sigh in recognition of a feeling.

This is what the best poetry and literature does. It articulates our feelings more perfectly than we ever could. It is like having an itch scratched: yes, you say, that's exactly how it was. That is what I felt and had no words for. In that moment, I feel such profound gratitude, as if the book or poem was written just for me.

Here is one of my favorite parts, although that is a disingenous statement. I love every page of this book. This may be because I identify so strongly with the author--she loves dogs and wears Danskos-- and then again, I can only hope that I would be able to turn tragedy into everyday grace, the way she does.

It may be a bit long, but it's my blog, after all, and blogs are nothing if not self-indulgent:

From a chapter entitled How to Banish Melancholy.

"You will need three dogs, one of whom has caught the scent of something interesting wafting through the second-floor window...When you open your eyes, she will be staring at you with such intensity that you burst out laughing. When you open the kitchen door they will fly into the yard and immediately commence hunting, noses to the ground, some small creature whose zigzagging trail resembles an electrocardiogram. You follow them onto the wet green lawn. So now you're outdoors and it's five a.m.

For the last month you've been inside while it rained. Perhaps you are a fan of rain, but this may have gone on too long. You have stopped answering the phone. You don't gather the mail. You have noticed that bad as it was when two dogs followed you from room to room, it's even worse with three. Every time you get up, they get up. Please don't, it's not worth it, you want to say as you rise from your soft red chair to wander into the kitchen on an errand you forget before arriving. You look out the window while the dogs settle down on a rug by the stove. They are so good-natured. Moments later you drift into the living room and again the dogs trail along behind, and if you do this often enough, the aimlessness of your day is driven home. From here it is but a hop, skip, and a jump to the pointlessness of your existence, which is why it is so excellent to be outdoors with your clothes on at five this morning."

Most of the book is more serious, if that is the right word, than this. Her husband suffered a traumatic brain injury when he ran into a New York street after their dog. No one thought he would live. He did, but his right frontal lobe is gone, among other brain injuries. He has no memory of the past, no concept of the future: he lives only in the moment, which, it turns out, may not be as pleasant as some Buddhists and New Age gurus would like you to believe. He was a writer, and his facility with words still comes through even after most of the rest of him disappears. Sometimes he speaks with startling clarity. Every time Abigail goes to see him, though, he says, "Absie! How did you find me?" because he cannot remember that she was there the day before, and the day before that. It is as if he is reporting from some other world, far away, and the messages reach our world only imperfectly if at all.