Browsing the Bookshelves

The Lives of the Monster dogs should have been an exceptional novel. It has an intriguing premise and all the elements required for a gripping plot - dastardly scientists, loyal and dependable dogs and of course a crusading, innocent journalist to come to the rescue.

It is a retrospective account of the dying days of a race of dogs, the result of over 100 years of experimentation, genetic manipulation and physical alteration. Fitted with artificial hands and mechanic voice boxes, these dogs were designed to the perfect foot soldiers - tough, intelligence, loyal and deadly - but by the time their race has been perfected the ghoulish man who first conceived of them is long dead and with him has gone any sense of their purpose or any concept of whom they were intended to fight. Frustrated, the monster dogs rise up against the community in which they were bred, massacring their human masters and, after years of wondering around the North American continent, descend on an unsuspecting New York with all the grace and elegance of 19th century Prussian High Society - and fabulous wealth to boot.

Having already been asked to accept that a village in Canada could exist for over a hundred years unnoticed by anyone else and that a troupe of 150 or so man-sized speaking dogs dressed in Victorian costume could, in the early 21st century, roam through Canada and New England for eight years without comment, the reader is now asked to believe that the monster dogs would be accepted by New Yorkers with little more interest or comment than that which would be generated by the arrival of a Hollywood B-star.  This is, quite frankly, too much. The author's argument that "hey, all New Yorkers are immigrants anyway and therefore understand and accept diversity" just isn't convincing. And this is the real flaw in the novel: while its language and scenario are rooted in the realism of today, its central premise is incredible and the reader is given no assistance to suspend disbelief.

This doesn't undermine the work entirely. It has a lot of good points. It is a fun and easy read, always thought-provoking and at times grotesques or moving. The drawing of the characters of the dogs is masterly, in particular those of Lydia, a tender and intelligent friend of peace, and Ludwig who alone seems to struggle to accept his differences. Yet ultimately, The Lives of the Monster Dogs fails to delivery on the promise of its premise, in part because of its incredible nature and in part because it, tantalisingly, fails to exploit fully the psychological issues it raises. One is left feeling that the author has squandered an opportunity to write something of real merit and lasting significance.

Yesterday was one of those days which makes me want to upsticks and move out of the city. Having dragged - almost literally - a very unwilling husband out of bed and into the car in good time to reach the riding stables for a mid-morning ride, we proceeded to travel at something less than a mile an hour. A road closure in Streatham caused tailbacks which were in danger of reaching Outer Mongolia.  Just 3.9 miles from our destination we had to concede that we had no chance of getting their on time. So we turned round and came home where consoled myself with the thought that I could at least now have the time to clean my boots. Of course I didn't do it, but it was nice to think that I could.  London is at its very worst when the traffic brings life to a halt.

The England match (England 1, Paraguay 0) almost passed me by, but it was nice to hear that they had won.  And I like to see all the flags fluttering in the breeze, engendering a real sense of engagement which is so often missing from London life.

The evening, and a second attempt to reach Wimbledon for a BBQ at the stables. This time the journey was as smooth as cherry pie. The punch was sweet and kicking and sitting around the stables, chatting to old and new friends and munching hotdogs and whole roasted mushrooms, was a pure delight. Perhaps we won't leave London just yet...