This essay collection, edited by Alice Hoffman, gathers fourteen personal essays by prominent writers about the dogs that shaped their lives. Framed by Hoffman's introduction and afterword, the book explores loyalty, grief, family, and the transformative power of the human-dog bond.
In her introduction, Hoffman traces her bond with dogs to a lonely childhood. A series of temperamental schnauzers preceded the dog who changed her life: a long-haired German shepherd named Houdini, whom she found at twenty-one while at Stanford. Houdini walked off-leash in Manhattan, eased her panic attacks, and was a calm, steady presence while she wrote. He disliked the man she married, a judgment she later acknowledged was correct. When his mobility failed at fifteen, she let him go. Hoffman considers Houdini a once-in-a-lifetime companion.
In "Dottie," Emily Henry recounts adopting an emaciated pit bull from the Humane Society, not out of instant connection but out of fear the dog would die if left behind. Dottie flinched at raised objects and destroyed her crate for months before gradually coming to trust Henry. Over eight years she became Henry's constant companion, once following her into Lake Michigan despite hating water. When a recurring tumor, deafness, and arthritis narrowed her world, a veterinarian came to their home. Henry concludes that the grief is inseparable from the love.
Bonnie Garmus's "Ninety-Nine" follows the adoption of a retired racing greyhound in England. Garmus and her husband David, rejected by shelters because their flat lacked a yard, found Cake Angel at a greyhound rescue kennel and renamed her Ninety-Nine after the character from
Get Smart, a name also belonging to Garmus's late best friend Helen. Ninety-Nine rejected all affection for a year. The shift came when Garmus received bad news and the dog pressed against her, a gesture she repeated with a crying child, a grieving widow, and a horse that died a week later. The couple moved to the country so she could run free, but a terminal diagnosis caught up. Just before her fourteenth birthday, they lay on the floor and pressed their bodies against hers, and she died in moments.
Tova Mirvis's "Sunny" explores how a cava-poochon, a small mixed-breed dog, strengthened her blended family with her second husband, Bruce. During the pandemic, her youngest child begged for a dog. Sunny fell ill immediately, and watching Bruce sing to the sick puppy stirred a bittersweet feeling; Mirvis reflects on her wish that they had met earlier and shared more of each other's lives. As Sunny recovered, raising him offered a window into what co-parenting together might have been like.
In "Max," Roxane Gay traces her aversion to dogs to her Haitian parents' practical relationship with animals and a childhood bite. She fell in love with Debbie, a devoted dog person, but declared they would never have a dog. During the pandemic, she noticed Debbie's joy at every passing dog and secretly researched breeds. They adopted a Maltipoo (Maltese-poodle mix) named Max, who bonded with Debbie and rejected Gay. Gay threw herself into his care until Max became devoted to her. Gay concludes that while she may not be a dog person, she is this dog's person.
Adriana Trigiani's "Lola" recounts a family trip to a Petco adoption event where her eleven-year-old daughter bypassed a charismatic crowd-pleaser in favor of a nervous puggle (beagle-pug mix) from Tennessee. They renamed the dog Lola and walked her home through the snow. Trigiani, a lifelong cat person, reflects that she has become a dog person.
Jodi Picoult's "Alvin" chronicles a rescue mutt found starving under a barbecue grate in Mississippi. Imperious and brilliant, Alvin mastered a doorbell system in hours, created diversions to steal other dogs' beds, and defeated every attempt to disguise his heartworm pill. A DNA test revealed Russian wolfhound heritage, which the family credited for his hauteur. Diagnosed with a lung tumor years later, he survived months past prediction. In his last moments, Alvin burrowed against Picoult with more affection than he had shown in twelve years.
Isabel Allende's "Olivia" intertwines a skittish rescue Tibetan terrier with the dissolution of a twenty-eight-year marriage. When Allende's marriage to her husband Willie collapsed under accumulated grief, including the deaths of three children, Olivia was the reason Allende did not leave immediately. After the divorce, Olivia died at around seventeen, and the couple grieved together for the dog and for each other.
Chris Bohjalian's "Jesse" describes how adopting a rescue pit bull mix weeks before the pandemic transformed his life. When Covid took his voice for nearly two years, Jesse became his quiet companion. Doctors hoped crying would loosen his tightened laryngeal muscles; alone in the woods with Jesse, Bohjalian began weeping, loosening both his grief and his voice. Morning walks delayed his writing, but he became more prolific than ever.
Laura Zigman's "Lady" tells of buying a Shetland sheepdog puppy for her only child, Ben, who desperately wanted a sibling. Lady became the family's emotional anchor for sixteen years, through the deaths of Zigman's parents to cancer and the amicable separation of her marriage.
Nick Trout's "Maverick" recounts performing a hip replacement on a German shepherd whose post-surgical nerve damage became a professional crisis. The injury left the dog's toes without sensation, risking amputation. Trout learns that the owner, Colby, got Maverick after struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts, and that the two hiked El Camino de Santiago and traveled to eight countries. Trout commits to the long recovery and reflects that the toughest cases teach the greatest lessons.
Amy Tan's "Frankie" traces her evolution from casual Yorkshire terrier owner to competitive co-owner of a championship show dog. After years of campaigning with breeder Lisa Farmer, Frankie won at Westminster, and Farmer retired him that night by cutting his floor-length coat to a puppy cut.
Elizabeth Strout's "Ethan" recalls her first husband Marty's black Labrador, whose name was inscribed inside their wedding bands. A swallowed golf ball nearly killed Ethan before surgery saved him. Years later, Ethan died in the car on the way to the vet, and the apartment's silence reverberated for months.
Ann Leary's "Eddie" follows her daughter Devin's adoption of a fearful terrier mix who turned out to be half Australian cattle dog. Leary initially disliked him, even arranging a DNA test hoping to prove he was part coyote. Understanding his herding-breed intelligence reframes everything: His stare was an attempt to engage, and his ball game was about controlling her movements. Leary built a training partnership that pulled her away from depression.
Paul Yoon's "Oscar" spans eleven years with a restless mixed-breed adopted as a promise to his wife. Oscar became inseparable from Yoon, sleeping in his bed and staying near him while he wrote. Yoon connects Oscar to his complicated relationship with his Korean immigrant parents and the emotional distances of his childhood. The essay closes with Oscar on a cliff above the Hudson River, coat catching the sun, and Yoon crouching with open arms, saying his name once in the wind.
In her afterword, Hoffman reveals that her Polish Lowland sheepdog Shelby died of kidney disease during the book's editing. Shelby had been her companion for ten years. Hoffman concludes that there is not one best dog but, for the fortunate, many best dogs who each enrich their lives.