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.

Atlantic City Horse-Diving Idea Tanks

From the 1920s to 1978, horse-diving acts were the main attraction at Steel Pier in Atlantic City. They were revived for a couple of months in 1993 by new owners of the pier, but abandoned after protests by animal rights groups.

Horse diving got its start in the late 1800s with William “Doc” Carver, a former performer in Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show. The act consists of a horse and rider diving from a 40- to 60-foot height into a 10- to 12-foot deep tank of water. Carver’s act became an entertainment staple at Steel Pier in the 1920s; it also spawned similar acts around the world, a memoir from one of the divers, a Disney film, and a Broadway musical.

As Steel Pier undergoes a multimillion renovation in the New Millennium, its owners (the same owners who closed the act in 1993) want to resurrect the nostalgic equine act. Naturally, animal welfare groups cried foul.

I signed a petition against the decision recently and was about to ask you to do the same. But good news arrived today instead! The owners have decided to abandon their idea. But not because of the outcry.

“We just felt that since Atlantic City is moving forward, we should move forward with it,” said Anthony Catanoso to the Associated Press, speaking on behalf of his family who owns the pier. “We should create new memories for visitors instead of re-creating old ones.”

Sigh. I wish Tony and his family were equipped with the intelligence and compassion necessary to see the inherent danger that diving poses to horses. But I’ll take victory however it comes to pass.

As Wayne Pacelle, president of the Humane Society of the U.S., said, “This is a merciful end to a colossally stupid idea.”

Of Nighttime Spectacles and Superheroes

e were disappointed to miss the Perseids meteor shower the other night—too much moon and ambient light. But we were treated to a wondrous show of flight much closer to Earth.

Bats. As we stepped outside to see a visiting neighbor home, dozens of what looked to be Little Brown Bats streamed above us—across our lawn toward the thick of trees up the street. We followed the oncoming stream to see where they were coming from.

We easily discovered their roost, which I’d prefer to keep mum about. I’ve already told you what folks do to plants around here. Who knows what they’d do to bats.

Bats are my superheroes in my personal war against biting bugs (Little Brown Bats can eat 600 mosquitoes in an hour), plus they’re serious pollinators of flowers. I don’t know much about the flying mammals, but I have fond memories of a few.

When I was a youngster, the very words poison ivy would pock my flesh. One summer I suffered a particularly severe bout of the stuff, my fingers so blistered they wouldn’t close. My mother kept vigilant over my attempts to ameliorate my condition and hardly let me travel beyond her eagle glare.

However, in a rare lapse of her monitoring, I slipped outside one evening. As I stood near our pool, watching reflections in the ripples of water I’d not been permitted to enjoy all summer, something darted through the air. Then another something, and another after that. Then one flew so close I could see ribbons of color swirling through the membrane of its wings.

My father explained that these were bats, visiting us for a sip from the pool and dining on the insects that gathered near it. I was fascinated and held out my hand to … what? I don’t remember. Maybe I was hoping a bat would perch on my arm like a canary. Instead, a bat flew directly at my hand, slicing through one of the enormous poison ivy blisters. Ah, what relief! I could finally close two of my fingers. I watched the bat as s/he continued snacking on bugs and thanked him/her for the special favor s/he’d granted me.

When I returned to the house, my mother scolded me for breaking the blister. I told her I didn’t do it—the bat did. At first she didn’t believe me. Then, on the outside chance I was telling the truth, she lectured me about palling around with dirty, dangerous animals. But she couldn’t break the spell the bat had cast over me. The bond was set.

Last night my husband and I discussed our evening plans. We could drive across town to hear a free bluegrass concert. Or we could stay home, our carbon footprint uncompromised, and watch the bats begin their nightly patrol.

We chose the latter, naturally, and enjoyed every minute of the winged performance.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische.]