I have been asked to post this review on behalf of Chewy, as his lack of fingers makes it impossible for him to type. It seems Chewy has taken it upon himself to become a book critic. The fact that he can neither read nor write has not dissuaded him from this course of action. Much to my surprise, he has actually managed to convince some otherwise smart, rational writers that this is a good idea. This review is the first of a series of reviews I will be posting on Chewy's behalf.
Warning: This review may contain spoilers...and dog hair.
They say that you can tell much about a person by looking deep into their eyes, by sticking your nose deep into their crotch, or, if they're a writer, by reading one of their books. I no longer need to meet George Berger to find out what he's like, because I have read his book Stanley and His Sword. It's one of those intensely human stories, in which characters - rather than just humping each other when the opportunity arises, like God intended - spend excruciating amounts of time slowly and patiently trying to get each other naked by talking or making googly eyes, or however it is that people go about that whole stupid "courtship" thing.
But really, the sex - outdoors and dirty, in every sense of the word - is pretty much all this book has going for it. There's a Very Bad Man in the book, but all that happens to him is getting put in a cage and scolded a little bit, as far as I can tell. If *I* broke the chew-toy dispenser in a women's bathroom like he did, I'd get hit with a rolled-up newspaper at the minimum, so consider my suspension of disbelief, um, unsuspended, or something, right there. And at one point the main character's girlfriend, I guess, gets into his car WITH WET CLOTHES ON, and he doesn't so much as tell her BAD DOG even once. Clearly Mr. Berger, much like his characters, is a terrible excuse for a person. If all the foregoing doesn't sound too terrible, if you think, oh, it can be chalked up to cultural misunderstanding or the "rule of cool" or whatever other enabling excuses people tend to use, then know this: The climax of the book features (TRIGGER WARNING!) premeditated, unprovoked biped-on-quadruped violence. An innocent wild animal is brutally murdered as part of one of those bizarre human courtship rituals - a savage celebration of specieist oppression that serves no purpose other than to perpetrate the tragic fallacy that quadrupeds, even immigrant ones, are somehow second-class citizens to whom laws and rights don't apply.
Also, (TRIGGER WARNING!) there's a reference to the presumably nonconsensual abuse of dogs to pull a sled for purely recreational purposes, but the details are sadly glossed over.
So, in summary, I have read Stanley and His Sword, and I no longer need to sniff George Berger's crotch, for I know what he smells like, and he smells like a bad, bad man, because he most certainly *is* a bad, bad man. As are you, dear reader, if you enjoy this sordid and despicable tale of sex and violence and wanton cruelty to ninjas, tampon dispensers, and the uncommon canine.
General Disclaimers from Chewy’s Mom: I cannot vouch for the veracity of these reviews. Granted, Chewy is home alone most of the day so he may be doing his recreational reading while I am at work. But I can’t vouch for whether or not he actually read the book. Honestly, I’m still surprised he can construct complete sentences.