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.
I am not against having my heartstrings pulled by a shaggy dog story – I cried over both Marley and Me and Lily and the Octopus – and as I have had a ridiculous amount of fun sharing my home with a now five month old Minidoodle named Cormac, a book entitled “Cormac: The Tale of a Dog Gone Missing” seemed an easy fit; I wasn't asking much of this book – just entertain me for a while. This “based on a true story” novel of a doggy who gets separated from his family had heartsting-pulling potential – I have no doubt that author Sonny Brewer loved Cormac and his disappearance was devastating for their family – and the details that Brewer's search revealed were of the “truth is stranger than fiction” variety, but the execution of this book was just passingly satisfactory. Brewer himself doesn't come off as very likeable, and for someone who tells us repeatedly that people tell him he's a good writer, this isn't amazingly written. Still no regrets: I got plenty of laughs from people who have met my dog and then saw me posing with this book.
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.(Yes, I named my own dog after Cormac McCarthy, but when people ask, I prefer to explain my secondary reason: that “Cormac” was a legendary Irish king and that seemed a fitting name for my red-haired Doodle.) So: Sonny Brewer was a bookstore owner in the hipster town of Fairhope, Alabama, barely making ends meet, when he decided to send an unfinished manuscript out to an agent. He was immediately taken on, the agent found a publisher, and in a whirlwind of success, the next thing Brewer knew, he was out on a book tour, needing to leave his four-year-old doggy at home in the care of a friend. During a brief thunder storm (which Cormac had recently developed a fear of), the dog ran through his yard's invisible fencing system (which had apparently happened a few times before), and by the time the friend called Brewer out in San Francisco to tell him the bad news, a neighbourhood search had begun. The story of the search wouldn't fill a whole book (although the details were quite interesting), so Brewer writes about his personal and professional life, and that's where he reveals himself to be someone I don't think I'd like. I didn't like the way he was always keeping important things from his wife (and when he described someone on a restaurant patio as “a small-breasted woman with straight blond hair”, I had to wonder if he really likes women at all; that description rubs me totally the wrong way.) I didn't like Brewer's history as a dog owner (he describes a series of dogs that he picked up and gave away when they weren't a good fit for his lifestyle; Cormac didn't have a microchip, despite the vet having recommended one; the invisible fence that didn't keep the dog in was never improved upon; not neutering an animal that gets away sometimes is incredibly irresponsible). I can't imagine why he would admit to setting the cruise control on his Jeep on a relaxing highway drive so he could keep one eye on the road while reading a book with the other. And as for the details of his search: I really couldn't understand why, when he called the pound and learned that a red Golden had been processed through the previous week, Brewer asked to speak to a manager, and when she said that he would need to come down in person – their policy is not to discuss details over the phone – Brewer blew up and said she's be hearing from his lawyer. And then, instead of driving to the pound, he drove to his lawyer's office – who got the same message from the manager: this is the policy. The two of them try to get others to call this manager, same result, so he goes back to his bookstore, where a friend insists on driving him to the pound – fifteen minutes away. Why wouldn't he have just gone to the pound in the first place?? More than one person tells Brewer that he's being rude on the phone – he was understandably upset over his lost dog, but as he's the one telling the story, I have to wonder just how rude he really got; I don't like him.
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?Like I said at the beginning, I wasn't expecting high literature from this read, so it's unfortunate that Brewer himself invokes comparisons to these celebrated writers; unsurprisingly, he falls short. I would rate this a 2.something but am rounding up because my own good red dog is curled up on my feet and that makes me feel a little bit more kindly toward humanity.
