BOOKreMARKS: Camels in Cars, Dogs in Zoos

You couldn’t turn to a media outlet this past week without hearing about the anniversary. The tenth anniversary, that is, of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Why did we do it? What did we accomplish? Was it worth it?

To mark this milestone, I have a book recommendation for you.

War is a topic I typically avoid when choosing books and films. But last month, a friend shoved a library book into my hands and said, “Here—I want you to read this. I loved it! Didn’t do anything for two days but read it.”

“Oh-kay…thanks,” was all I could muster. I didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. Yet I also didn’t a) want to be responsible for her library book; b) read about a war zone; and c) follow animals kept in a zoo. Reasons B and C promised gloom and doom.

I read it anyway, and I’m thankful I did.

Babylon’s Ark is a memoir of one man’s mission in the early days of the Iraq War to save the animals of the Baghdad Zoo. Lawrence Anthony left his home in South Africa, where he ran a wildlife preserve, armed only with knowledge about and compassion for large, wild animals—plus experience in negotiating on the fly.

This is not a sweet animal rescue tale. It’s full of adventure and darkness and provides some insights into the culture of Iraqis and their relationships with animals. Here are a handful of things I learned:
• Until Lawrence Anthony created one, an agency overseeing animal welfare didn’t exist in Iraq. There was no ASPCA equivalent.
• To much of the population, dogs were curiosities, hence their inclusion in zoos.
• Black market trade in exotic animals thrives in Iraq.
• Like royal families of millennia past, the Husseins had numerous private zoos on their palace grounds.
• Improvisation is critical to rescue operations—which is how a camel ended up a passenger in an open-topped vehicle.

If I were the publisher of Babylon’s Ark, I’d also market it to a secondary audience: business professionals and leaders. It would be a great book to discuss in a corporate book club or leadership seminar because every step forward (and five steps backward) taken during the mission was the result of a negotiation or barter. Diplomacy, communication expertise, and psychological/cultural considerations were always in play. Nearly every obstacle recounted in Babylon’s Ark demanded careful communications and collaboration with someone whose goals and perspective were at odds with the animal rescuers. Even the animal rescuers were at times at odds with one another. Plenty of these scenarios could easily be applied to a business environment. Of course, the additional benefit of marketing to this audience is attracting new animal advocates and more people committed to becoming better stewards of our planet—which would have pleased the author no end.

Had he lived to see this tenth anniversary, I’m sure Lawrence Anthony would have plenty to say about it. I’ll leave you with this excerpt from Babylon’s Ark: The Incredible Wartime Rescue of the Baghdad Zoo.

“This was to be our stand. This was more than just a zoo in a war zone. It was about making an intrinsically ethical and moral statement, saying: Enough is enough. You just can’t say to hell with the consequences to the animal kingdom. It’s all very well getting rid of a monster like Saddam, but that doesn’t mean we can forget what we are doing to the rest of our planet. It doesn’t excuse a zoo getting trashed just because nobody had the foresight to put a basic survival plan in place for hundreds of animals utterly dependent on humans.”

BOOKreMARKS: The Workout that Wouldn’t End

I opened my new reading year with Grayson—a sweet, short memoir by competitive open-water swimmer Lynne Cox. In it, she details a single morning of her daily three-hour training in the Pacific Ocean—a morning that began like any other until…the water shuddered. This occurs in the sixth paragraph; then the morning (and every subsequent graf) gets stranger.

Cox is only 17 and has already broken numerous long-distance swimming records at this point in her life. She’s schooled in visualization techniques, resilience, and discipline. Where others cower from fear (like me, whom you’d never find in a dark, 55-degree ocean at 5 a.m.), Cox confronts and controls. Better still, especially for those of us who are armchair travelers, she remains aware and in awe of the marine life she encounters. She introduces readers to aloof sea turtles, chatty dolphins, a manic stingray colony, and flying tuna. We learn tidbits about each of these creatures and how oddly they’re behaving that morning. We get drawn in to Cox’s fear-induced urge to finish her workout ASAP and high-tail it home until…we meet “old” Steve near shore.

Steve owns a bait shop and has long been a source of wisdom and friendship to Cox. Today he’s not in his usual spot and Cox worries. She heads closer inland yet he waves her away. He explains that a baby gray whale has been following her like a puppy for about a mile. She can’t go closer to shore—it’ll beach the little guy—and she can’t stop swimming now. She must help the infant find his mother, his only food source at his tender age (baby grays drink about 50 gallons of milk per day), or he’ll die.

An already exhausted Cox rallies to save the 18-foot youngster. She takes her mission quite selflessly and compassionately, in spite of how the cold is affecting her, in spite of having no idea how to find one particular female whale in the Pacific. Though the baby—whom she dubs Grayson (a gray’s son)—acts healthy and playful, Cox knows every minute counts to reunite him with his mother. Especially considering the 5,000+-mile migration to the Arctic the whales have ahead of them.

As Grayson’s rescue grows longer and more complicated, Cox takes the advice of another old seaman who keeps an eye on her during her morning workouts. “Sometimes answers come out of time and struggle, and learning. Sometimes you just have to try again in a different way.”

Cox experiments with new dives, new ways of holding her breath longer, new ideas about what little Grayson is thinking and how he might have slipped away from his mother. And in all of this, Cox continues sending positive thoughts/energy into the Universe, hoping it will help the cause, and Grayson continues following her around the Pacific.

Don’t let Grayson’s slim dimensions fool you. At first glance, it’s a stirring rescue tale. But at closer read, it’s a love song to the ocean—and an instruction manual on what’s possible when we open our hearts and minds to the unknown.

[Gray whale mother and calf: photographer unknown.]

BOOKreMARKS: “Cat lovers will adore this book”

I’ve just finished reading the awkwardly titled The Cat Who Came Back for Christmas: How a Cat Brought a Family the Gift of Love by Julia Romp. It’s the perfect feel-good, breezy read most of could use to lift our spirits.

Yet I’m not sure Temple Grandin, who endorsed the book with “Cat lovers will adore this book,” got it right. Cat lovers may squirm with impatience through the first 64 pages, wondering whether the cat will ever enter the story. If all you’re looking for in Romp’s memoir is an animal story, then you may be disappointed—for it is so much more than that.

Romp, who is not a professional writer, gives us a temporary view into her world of unexpected single motherhood. We share her distress when doctors fail for years to properly diagnose her baby’s odd behaviors, we suffer her embarrassment when she’s in public with her unusual boy, and we nod knowingly as her absolute and unshakeable love for her son George motivates her to constantly seek a connection with him.

George is autistic (hence the reason Temple Grandin was asked to comment on the book). As much as the general public is aware of autism through the mainstream media, there remains a grave disconnect between our knowledge and our understanding. Romp magnifies for her readers how other people—children, teachers, strangers—respond to George and how George perceives the world he shares with them. We learn quickly that they may as well be two different planets.

If you know someone who is dealing with autism in any capacity, I encourage you to read The Cat Who Came Back for Christmas (also published as A Friend Like Ben). On second thought, you should probably read it regardless, for if recent statistics are accurate, you WILL cross paths with autism at some point in your life. And if you’re informed about autism’s effects on families, you may enhance your understanding and compassion for those families. When an autistic child starts screaming in a mall, you may refrain from tsk-tsking over his bad behavior and realize instead that he may well be in pain from the lights and blaring music or that he feels threatened by the scores of people around him. In this respect, the book deserves a wider audience.

 As for animal lovers, the book provides a terrific role model (Romp herself) of animal advocacy. Cat and animal lovers should read it if only to learn how to find a lost pet. Romp’s search for her son’s beloved Baboo (aka Ben) is a showdown of determination and desperation. As her net widens, so does her stewardship: False leads (cats mistakenly identified as Ben) get new guardians or are returned home through Romp’s efforts. She helps others along the way because it’s the right thing to do—even when her hopes of recovering her own feline are fading.

Romp writes of the cruelty that percolates during a search—the people who cursed her out for putting a leaflet on their cars, the people who simply meowed into her answering machine, the person who claimed to have Ben and said, “We’ve got him and you won’t get him back.” She writes of the loss of the small, furry family member: how it devastated her son—“I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. My heart is coming out,” he said over and over—and how it unraveled her relationship with him.

The Cat Who Came Back for Christmas probably won’t win any literary awards, but don’t let that stop you from reading it. It’s engaging and instructive nonetheless. It’s a story of loss and fierce love—for a child, for a cat, and for the family unit made whole by each.

BOOKreMarks: What the Dog Said

I scooped up an unexpected treasure last week at a library sale. It’s one of those “gift” books: small and easy to handle, photographs on every spread, lean on text. It’s Dylan Schaffer’s Dog Stories with black-and-white, sepia-washed photographs by Jon Weber. The stories are told by dogs from dogs’ perspectives.

I don’t often fall for such stuff. Heaven only knows how many blogs and books exist in this category. And the ones written by critters who have speech impediments or spelling challenges grate on me. (I know, I know: The I Can Has Cheezburger? captions fit squarely into this description. It took me a long time to come round to them.)

But Schaffer’s dogs are different. They’re wise and poignant and engaging. They’re a perfect holiday gift for the dog lovers in your life. Here’s an excerpt—a dialogue between a couple of Greyhounds, Merlin and Palermo:

M: What makes us dogs?

P: Why do you ask?

M: I sometimes think the things that make me easily identifiable as a dog—my bark, my smell—are the least important things about me, about us. We are unique among the species, but for reasons seldom articulated.

P: That is because we live in a borrowed world. Like all domesticated creatures we exist as a subset of the experiences of our masters. And like all slaves we are valued exclusively for those traits which make us useful: we are obedient, we are protective. But our trials, loves, hopes, and dreams, these are obscured by our owners’ need for us to be dog-like.

M: So what is the one thing that most makes you a dog?

P: I can serve without being servile. And you?

M: I can see into the hearts of those who love me.

[Photograph by Barbara Karant—professional photographer, Greyhound enthusiast, and evangelist for rescue organization Greyhounds Only.]

BOOKreMARKS: Get Rabid for Halloween

Looking for something spooky to read this month? Try Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus.

If you’d told me last year that I’d enjoy reading 200+ pages about rabies, I would have politely corrected you. Yet that’s exactly what happened a few months ago when I devoured the collaboration between Bill Wasik, a writer for Wired.com, and Monica Murphy, a veterinarian (and married to Mr. Wasik). It’s a romp through history, ever focusing on the disease and its victims, its symptoms, and its treatments—all the while weaving cultural and historical perspectives into the story. Werewolves, vampires, and zombies figure into the picture, too.

After speaking with an animal control officer earlier this year about rabies, I suspected her department acted more on myths and assumptions than on facts (long story involving a sweet fox). I promised myself I’d research the topic, but procrastinated. Then Rabid caught my attention at the library and I thought it might shed some light on the issue.

It didn’t answer my specific questions, yet the book offered so much more. It made me realize how much Louis Pasteur contributed to the world, how important rabies vaccinations are for pets, how rabies research helped scientists understand how to breach the blood-brain barrier, how and why dogs are perceived so differently in countries beyond U.S. borders, how rabies figured into literature and laws. With so much context, even zombies started making sense.

If you’re craving a little gore and horror to get you in the holiday spirit, read Rabid. It won’t disappoint.

BOOKreMARKS: Bye, Bye Birdie

I’ve reached the final chapter of Sy Montgomery’s Birdology and I hesitate to begin it because I don’t want the book to end. Heck, I didn’t want the hummingbird chapter to end.

I’ve learned so much about birds (Montgomery writes: “A raptor’s vision is the sharpest of all living creatures.” They can spot prey across a three-square-mile area from 1,000 feet in the air.) and have delighted in the stories (Scientists studying homing pigeons at Cornell University had one bird who always made it back to Ithaca after being released elsewhere, but never returned to the coop as did the other birds in the study. Instead, locals who spotted the wayward banded bird in their yards would report it to Cornell, then send the bird back to the scientists—in a taxi! I’m guessing the first time the pigeon failed to return to the coop was an honest mistake, but thereafter he made it a point to meet some new neighbors and get chauffeured through town.)

If you’re not already schooled in bird behavior, please read Birdology. It will enrich your connection to the great outdoors.

[Falcon photo from Audubon Magazine; Frill Back Pigeon photo from the National Pigeon Association.]

BOOKreMARKS: DEWEY Rises Above Other Animal Memoirs

The day I purchased two stacks of animal-related books from the library sales cellar, I threw in Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World at the last minute. I’d tried to borrow it from my Chicago library branch years ago when it was first published, but someone else always got to it before me. After buying it, I wondered why I did when I could easily have borrowed it in the Bluegrass. After all, it was only a sweet little tale about a rescued cat’s life in a library. Like so many similar memoirs, it would be touching at first read, but it wouldn’t linger in my mind. It wasn’t a keeper.

How wrong I was—on so many counts.

I have to confess upfront that I missed all the media fanfare about Dewey back in the ’90s. So every page was new to me. That said, I was hooked by the heft author Vicki Myron gave the book, for she told not only Dewey’s story but also that of her town and her family. Readers come away enriched with insights about: living in a small town; the metamorphosis from family-owned farms to corporate farming; the effects of joblessness on rural communities and libraries; city and library politics; and, of course, the influence animals exert over humans. I got so much more than I bargained for—plus it’s not dripping with saccharine language and it’s not full of typos as are so many books of this genre.

“Sometimes a cat is more than an animal…”

Above all the insights, though, Dewey remains the star of the book. He was certainly much more than a cat. He was also a library promoter, Web traffic manager, storytime consultant, family counselor, workforce mediator, and affection magnet. His intelligence, his comic antics, and his empathy are lovingly illuminated. In fact, a film is in the works and Myron has penned two additional books featuring the golden feline.

Add Dewey to your summer reading list. It’s a fast read that you won’t soon forget. But be warned: You might be struck with the unusual desire to visit Spencer, Iowa.

[Photos of Dewey from his Web site.]

A Dewey Sidenote: Twisted Thinking
As testament to the secrets that small-town residents can harbor, no one ever discovered who threw baby Dewey down the library book-drop chute that frigid evening in 1988. But curiously, once Dewey later met with stardom and acquired a fan base, numerous people stepped forward to claim credit for abandoning him!

BOOKreMARKS: Reading Burdens

I can hardly wait to finish the books I’m reading. Not because I’m glued to the stories unfolding, but because I’m dragging myself through each chapter in hopes that the next one will be better than the last.

It’s probably just a timing thing—my selections are out of sync with my frame of mind. Or it’s a bad combination of topics. I usually have at least one book that’s so arresting I can hardly take a break from it. Unfortunately, that is not the case with my current selections.

One book credits two editors for its completion, but it could easily have used two more. Plodding through misspellings, extra words, and random punctuation slows my reading and comprehension and accelerates my heartbeat and irritation. I could stop reading the book, but I don’t want to miss any of the charming anecdotes about transspecies friendships buried in it. I’ll trudge on.

Another book started out well, but the middle chapters reverted to backstory. As important as this biographical information may be to the author to convey, I find it nearly irrelevant (and, I’m ashamed to admit, uninteresting to me). I’ll continue reading, though. The final third of the book promises to return to the original topic that hooked me in the first place—living with brain damage.

The one work of fiction I’m reading isn’t really a struggle, but I confess I’m having difficulty remembering who all the characters are of all the subplots. My spirits improved last night when the narrator’s own mother exclaimed, “For heaven’s sake, not another character. There are far too many already, and all these minor ones, what’s the point?”

Thanks for putting it bluntly. I feel better knowing I’m not alone.

[Art by Milton Avery.]

BOOKreMARKS: Did You Know…?

My brain is aflutter with what I’ve read this week and I wanted to share with you a few things I’ve learned.

1. Snails have more than 2,000 tiny teeth. Some species shoot the object of their affections with a love dart. Really.
from The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey

2. After the Korean War, the Marines schemed to make money and fame by breeding an equine war heroine, Reckless, with a stallion of royal bloodlines. The military PR folks expected her offspring to win a Kentucky Derby. Problem was that Reckless fell for a bronco instead of the blueblood.
from Chicken Soup For The Horse Lover’s Soul: Inspirational Stories About Horses and the People Who Love Them

3. I often wondered how humans so quickly decimated large populations of elephants and rhinos in Africa. Here’s one reason: In the 1970s and ’80s, poachers used machine guns. Talk about having an edge…
from Bulu: African Wonder Dog by Dick Houston

4. When geriatric canines start showing signs of anxiety and behavioral changes/problems, it’s time for a vet visit. Typically, the anxiety indicates a health issue of some sort—one that your pooch is sometimes aware of long before you or technology can detect it. You can control the anxiety through behavior modification training and medication, but you need to monitor and treat the more critical source of the behavioral changes—that is, the tumor or cancer or whatever physiological ailment is taking root. (I suspect the same is true for cats.)
from The Dog Who Loved Too Much: Tales, Treatments, and the Psychology of Dogs by Nicholas Dodman

“Reading without reflecting is like eating without digesting.”
—Edmund Burke

5. If someone you know—especially an elderly someone—shows signs of confusion about recognizing everyday objects or faces or places, don’t immediately chalk it up to a faulty memory or poor vision or senility. It may be a fancy-named neurological glitch. Encourage your friend or loved one to see a neurologist.
from The Mind’s Eye by Oliver Sacks

6. Some horses run better on turf than on dirt. No surprise there. But I AM surprised that at one point at Santa Anita, the turf racetrack crosses paths with the dirt track. That is, it switches from turf to dirt and back again to turf. If I were doing the racing, I’d find that unsettling—as did one of Smiley’s horses. Not only can it impede the horse’s ability to win, it poses potential physical danger to the horse.
from A Year at the Races: Reflections on Horses, Humans, Love, Money, and Luck by Jane Smiley

7. Jill Abramson, making history as executive editor of the New York Times, once drove the getaway van in a kidnapping. Well, more of a rescue, actually. She was assisting a friend in removing a dog from the house of the woman’s abusive ex-boyfriend. You gotta love someone who has superhero tendencies.
from The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout by Jill Abramson

[Art by Gyula Benczúr.]

BOOKreMARKS: My Pseudoselection Process

My recent trip to the library added an abundance of animal books—some that you may question—to my Current Reading Lineup list. Allow me to explain.

I’ve acquired a weird sense of urgency about borrowing books. Once inside the library, I beeline to the animals and new-arrivals sections. As I scan the spines, an afflicted part of my brain says, “Take it now. You may never see it at this location again.”

This is true. Books are constantly shuffled between the Central Library and its five or six branches. But then my rational brain steps in to advise: “You could always plan ahead and request that a particular title be held for you at the branch of your choosing.”

This is also true, yet tricky. Lots of variables play into the timing: when (and if) the last borrower actually returns the book, whether the book’s condition is deemed acceptable for continued borrowing, how long the book is in transit from one library to another. And if I request more than one book, how many trips to the library must I make to retrieve them all? In the end, I panic and defer to my affliction. If I see something that interests me, I take it.

A few of my selections this month could have been more informed. For instance, I had The Puppy Diaries confused with a different book about raising a guide-dog pooch. The Bill Henderson (founder of Pushcart Press/Prize) memoir contains a struggle with religion, a topic I’m not interested in right now. And then, of course, it apparently slipped my mind when I grabbed the horse book how prominently religion figures into the Chicken Soup series.

But I’m reading all the books anyway and, so far, no regrets. Henderson has helped me solidify my philosophy about dog companionship; Abramson has driven home the notion that a high IQ, successful career, and A-list friends aren’t enough to make someone a great pet guardian; and the Chicken Soup collection reminds me of how many untold tales are out there awaiting their debut in print.

My pseudoselection process may not have presented me with the books I expected, but I’ll be richer for having read them.

[Art by Van Gogh.]

BOOKreMARKS: My Getaway Suggestion for Dog Lovers

If reality is getting you down and a vacation is out of the question right now, I recommend you turn to the pages of Spencer Quinn’s “Chet and Bernie Mystery Series” for your escapism. It has action, eco-mindedness, suspense, potential love stories, and, best of all, dogs. In fact, half of the Little Detective Agency workforce—and the narrator of the series—is the canine Chet.

Chet provides the nose and bark for the detective team, and the comic relief and altered perspective for the reader. He is Everydog and yet quite his own singular dog, too. His brand of logic and his attempts to translate human language drive the story as the plot thickens in the background. And, of course, his canine wisdom keeps him leaps-and-bounds ahead of the humans in figuring out clues to whatever mystery is at hand.

In To Fetch A Thief, Chet describes watching the parallel, symbolic reactions of two men after the demise of their marriages. On the verge of giving an insightful analysis of the scenes, Chet admits: “I came very close to having a big thought, but it didn’t quite come.” Oh, Chet, you’ve no idea how often that happens to me.

I appreciate Chet’s take on numbers (“I don’t go past two myself,” says he), his love of pastries, and his fearless approach to life.

So far, the series includes Dog On It, Thereby Hangs A Tail, To Fetch A Thief, The Dog Who Knew Too Much, and (to be released in September) A Fistful of Collars. It’s breezy reading told well. It will make you think twice before talking to your dog and will likely increase (if that’s possible) your admiration for your pooch. And for as long as you’re reading, your concerns about the economy, the weather, or whatever keeps you up at night will switch to Pause mode.

It doesn’t get much better than that.

BOOKreMARKS: Anthologies, Part 2

 Well, well, well.

Had no intention of revisiting yesterday’s rant, but a recent discovery requires a correction and a mea culpa from me. Apparently, when I searched for clues regarding the authorship of a story in the anthology I mentioned (but didn’t name, thank goodness), I searched at the wrong end of the book.

Last night, before I started reading a new section of the dog anthology, I skimmed the table of contents and right there in front of me was the clue I’d earlier missed. Each work of fiction was clearly labeled “A Story.”

Duh.

Now the editors of said dog anthology have returned to their elevated position on my admiration meter. I’m sorry I doubted them—I hate it when my heroes fall.

But my rant still holds. Other anthologies have erred (honest) on this subject and stirred my ire.

Whew! Glad that’s off my chest. Thanks for listening.

[The anthology cover pictured is not one I’ve read, so I have no idea where it stands on the subject of mixing fact with fiction.]

Oh. One more thing. The title of the Norman Rockwell magazine-cover art used in yesterday’s post is hardly legible. The work is called “Fact and Fiction,” hence its inclusion.

BOOKreMARKS: Anthologies Tap Pet Peeves I Didn’t Know I Had

I’ve read a fair number of anthologies this past year. Some have been great reading, others just so-so. Yet regardless of the quality of writing, I’ve learned that a single editorial omission can really tick me off.

The other night, while reading an anthology of dog stories, I stumbled on the very first page of one selection. The writer of the story, a woman, opened her contribution with a reference to her “wife.” Assuming that this was a true narrative as the others before it had been, I made the short leap of faith that the author was a lesbian. But soon, little clues were dropped to indicate that the narrator was a man.

I stopped reading and looked again at the short bio included in the back of the anthology. (Bios, I’ve learned, are a critical element of anthologies for me. They give insights about the writers and context for the story; they help me decide whether I want to read more of a writer’s work. I give a thumbs-down to anthologies that are bio-less. Also, I find it frustrating when anthologies that contain a mix of contemporary authors and those from previous centuries omit birth/death dates in the bios.) It gave me nothing.

Next, I put the book aside and searched the Internet for an explanation. Had the wrong author been cited with the story? Had a simple editorial mistake sent me on this hunt?

No, as it turned out. The story was, indeed, written by the woman whose name was published beneath the title in my anthology. The story had also been published previously in a journal or two, but (and it’s a BIG BUT) the story was FICTION! That is to say—because I think our society is often confused about the differences between FICTION and NONFICTION (Isn’t that right, James Frey, Mike Daisey, Jayson Blair?)—this story was NOT TRUE. It was a fabrication. The incident described in the story did not really happen; the people of the story were characters conjured in the author’s imagination.

The good news: I could finally stop puzzling over the story and just read it for its entertainment value.

The bad news: The editors of the anthology fell a notch or two on my admiration meter. Certainly this wasn’t the first anthology I’d read that mixed fact with fiction. I simply expected more of these particular editors.

For the record, I don’t oppose combining fact and fiction. I just want a heads-up about it. I want it clearly labeled—especially in a thematic anthology that may be read for reasons other than entertainment. Maybe it’s a book of surgeons’ life-and-death experiences, or mountain-climbers’ biggest challenges, or, as in the case of the anthology that got me kvetching in the first place, a book about the human-canine relationship. Readers should know whether they’re reading fact or fiction before they: 1) Try to replicate a situation described in the story; 2) Use information from the story to resolve a real-life problem; 3) Retell part of the story at a cocktail party; 4) Assume connections between the story and its author; and 5) Use parts of the story for educational purposes.

Oh dear. How I’ve gone on about this. I’ll stop now.

There is a silver lining in all this, though: I regard my reading as further instruction toward editorial mastery. I hope to one day curate my own animal-related anthology and when I do, I’ll have a long list of Dos and Don’ts to follow. I’m grateful to the editors who have pioneered the way before me.

BOOKreMARKS: The Veterinarian’s Life Examined

The downtown library here houses a bookstore in its basement where it sells donated and decommissioned books and periodicals. All proceeds support the library.

Earlier this year, I was killing time there and parked myself in front of the small section devoted to animals (with the exception of horses, for in the Bluegrass, horses are a category unto themselves). The more I browsed, the more I wanted those books.

Abandoning all self-control, I broke my rule about buying new books, though I rationalized it by noting the purchase was actually a donation to a good cause and the content would help me with the animal welfare projects I was working on. Plus, I limited myself to only the books priced under $3. Even so, I came home with a stack of reading for which I had no space.

An Unspoken Art: Profiles of Veterinary Life by Lee Gutkind was one of those books. Gutkind is the founding editor of Creative Nonfiction magazine and has penned a number of similar books profiling members of the medical community. I’m not sure who the intended audience is, but An Unspoken Art seems appropriate for teenagers who are considering a veterinary career, for clients who want a sense of the veterinarian life and perspective, and, of course, for anyone working or living with a veterinarian.

An Unspoken Art is an easy, straightforward read giving its audience a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes practices of large-animal veterinarians and their assistants, as well as a look at the more typical cat-dog practices. Readers meet…

The vet who had to perform surgery on a pregnant mare at night, in a field, under pouring rain, with only truck headlights to guide her hand.
The vet whose affluent clients fly him to wherever they are in the world to administer whatever their pets need.
The veterinarian who treats penguins at a zoo for bumblefoot, a condition only captive penguins suffer from due to the materials used in their exhibit construction.

Though you’re aware of the writer as he describes the people and animals he’s profiling, Gutkind doesn’t insert himself into the book until the final chapter. And this is where it all went wrong for me.

Gutkind writes about his beloved dog and the heartbreaking decisions he had to make for the German Shepherd. It’s not clear when this episode of Gutkind’s life occurred, but probably well before his book’s publication date of 1997. The author made some bad choices—both for the Shepherd and for himself. Yet this was more a matter of timing than anything else. Had the Shepherd been alive post-1996, when The Dog Who Loved Too Much (another book I took home from the library basement) was published, Gutkind could have read this revelatory explanation of dog behavior and the nuances of aggressive tendencies. Had Gutkind visited the author of The Dog Who Loved Too Much, animal behaviorist Dr. Nicholas Dodman, he might have been able to keep his Shepherd by changing the dog’s diet, exercise regimen, and training.

I guess this hits on another weakness of the book you have to keep in mind while reading it: Vet care has significantly progressed since the book was published, and animal behavior research has expanded. Naturally, this makes some of the decisions and remarks cited in An Unspoken Art seem uninformed when, in fact, they’re just dated.

I don’t regret reading the book. It fed me historical tidbits I didn’t know and anecdotes that may prove useful in the future. But it’s not the only book I’d choose to read to understand a vet’s life in 2012. Plenty of memoirs have been published since 1997 that better reflect current trends and research in veterinary medicine.

Gutkind experienced a transformation while researching An Unspoken Art, which he believed was going to be just one more of his books about medicine. Instead, he discovered that veterinarians (unlike humans’ doctors) serve both their patients and their clients in manifold ways: “Veterinarians practice medicine and treat sick animals, but more than that and in a variety of crucial ways, veterinarians help people live more well-rounded, three-dimensional lives with animals as a primary balancing or anchoring factor.”

This is the crucial message of An Unspoken Art, a message that makes it worthwhile reading for anyone who may need to rely on the knowledge and experience of a veterinarian.

[Top illustration by C. Coles Phillips; other illustrations by Hugh Lofting for his Doctor Dolittle series.]

BOOKreMARKS: Your First and Only Warning

When I started to resize my personal library—that is, depopulate it—and commit to borrowing rather than buying any more books, I started keeping track of what I’d read. Hence the lists on the right of Lull.

My lists are only lists, though; they’re not recommendations. I want to be clear on that. The books listed may not even have struck my fancy; they’re simply the ones I finished reading.

However, many of the books on my lists have touched me in some way or riled my thoughts on certain subjects, which I’d like to share with you from time to time. No reviews, no synopses, no critical analyses. You can get those from oodles of other blogs and lit sites. I’m not trying to make Lull a go-to blog for bibliophiles. I just want to tell you how a particular book has affected me, or what impressions it has left on me. I’ll try to avoid giving much away and leave you to decide whether you want to read it.

If you don’t wish to read my reactions to books in the future, you can skip reading any Lull posts whose titles begin with the word “BOOKreMARKS.”

This, then, is the extent of my effort to follow the current protocol of the tech age: offering you fair warning and a choice of opting out when the occasion arises.

Whew! I’m glad we’re done with that! Moving forward…

[Art by Charles Burton Barber.]