![]() Yet that pales in the rapturous illumination of Orlean’s vision: He was only a dog, but Garbo was only a woman. He was the most famous dog in the world, a king of silent pictures. Two of his children would be cared for by Jean Harlow and Greta Garbo. So the future star was French, yet a German shepherd and a naturalized American. Somehow he smuggled the dog back to America. ![]() There were dead dogs, but there was a mother with five puppies. So he went to France with Pershing, and in the village of Fliury he came upon a kennel building shattered by artillery fire. Born in 1893 in California, he had spent time in a children’s home, placed there by parents who had a hard time managing. The story began during World War I, when sixteen million animals were in military service. But your dog is mercifully free from ideas. You and Susan Orlean will know it is a great idea. But you can read it with your dog at your feet, or all around you, like an aroma. ![]() You cannot read the book to your dogs, for dogs do not do plot or trust uplift. We do not trust smell we are embarrassed by it. A dog is nature, and we are feeble wrecks from sci-fi breaking up in our pixels. Yet you have failed to live up to his or her oneness with the world, not to mention sleeping and farting. You have proposed living by a level of fussy intelligence (with debt ceilings, sub-texts, and Facebook) that he or she ignores. ![]() You have let your dog down, no matter if his or her loyal, moist eyes never waver. ![]()
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