I have a dog named Jackson, who between the ages of four and five, in people years, became suicidal. In a period of less than twelve months, Jackson jumped out of the back of a speeding truck, ate a fourteen-pound bag of nonorganic garden fertilizer, and threw himself between the jaws of a hundred-and-fifty-pound Russian wolfhound. Similarily, when I turned twenty-eight years old, I started to date a man whose favorite song was 'Desperado.'
... My friend Debra said, 'He's not an altogether bad person. He just has no imagination, and of course, that has made him a little mean.'
(From "Jackson is Only One of My Dogs", by Pam Houston)
In an interview with Powell's Books about her later book, Sight Hound, Houston says, "it was time to write about a few good men. That one of those men happens to be a dog, well, who would call it a surprise?"
Adding Houston's bibliography to my beach, bonfire, lazy day reading list.
(Photo: I'm thinking a paul newman-esque cowboy would be a fun catch.)