I stumbled upon this book at a used book store when I was trading in some older material. This was a pleasurable treasure to find.

The book is told omniscient narrator, but it follows the life and thoughts of Mr. Bones, a loyal and loveable canine. Willy G. Christmas is old Bonesy's master. Willy suffers from schizophrenia, but using the dog as the central character creates a unique way to look at his master's condition.

This book is a pretty simple read, but Auster fills each page with subtle insights into very differing lifestyles.

In the end, the book makes any petlover love their animal friend even more. It has affected me. I am much more deliberate about how I communicate and relate to my cat. Thanks, Mr. Bones! (And if I ever get a dog, it will probably need to be named Mr. Bones - or Ms. Bones, I guess)

I'm hard-pressed to think of a book I've actively disliked more in recent (or long-term) memory. What a mess. What a waste of a day. Once again, Auster attempts to add gravitas at the absolute end to absolutely no effect. His heart was in the right place, but this was a giant miss. If things keep going this way, it's time for me and Auster to part ways. Holy shit, what a terrible book! And I say this as a dyed-in-the-wool dog lover. Cloying on virtually every front. Marley & Me for the literati. Fuck you, Timbuktu.

"(...) memory was a place, a real place that one could visit, and that to spend a few moments among the dead was not necessarily bad for you, that it could in fact be a source of great comfort and happiness."