Lassie and Enzo

I am not sure if it was purely for recreation or in celebration of someone’s birthday, but I found myself at the movies with two girlfriends and 7 children. The children were aged 7 years and under. The movie was a remake of the classic: Lassie.

And as the movie drew to its climax, as is typical, Lassie was in deadly peril—there was uncertainty about her survival after saving the day. And one of the children, became increasingly concerned over the prospect of Lassie’s demise. But another child, upon seeing his friend’s anxiety, turned and said Don’t worry--Lassie isn’t dead—she has to come back for the next movie.

I have never cried when reading a book. On occasion the writing has provoked a tear or two, but never a full-on cry—the kind that requires tissues. So when I read the reviews of a book called The Art of Racing in the Rain and the Amazon reviewers spoke of their extreme emotional response to the next to last chapter of the book I thought Seriously? It’s a book—the characters are not real. Who cries when reading a book? There is no visual—like a movie.

So based on the starred reviews I ordered the novel and then chose the story for my book group. And indeed the tale was very engaging. It was written from the perspective of a dog—an Airedale mix. It was humorous, insightful and surprisingly spiritual. I became emotionally attached to the characters—particularly Enzo the dog. And even though I was braced for perhaps a sniffle in that second to last chapter that everyone was talking about, I collapsed into mental-patient variety  cry—sobbing, with a runny nose. I have been less emotional over human real life tragedies.  I was so depleted from sorrow that it took me an hour to get myself together enough to read the triumphant final chapter.

And even though the concern-ridden child understood his friend’s uncanny adult reality-based view on Lassie’s fate, some tears still welled up and one or two of them may have even escaped. The sentiment, while expected, was just too much to bear.

 I too had anticipated an emotional reaction to Enzo’s journey, but I was unprepared for the depth.

It’s funny how sometimes the line between fiction and non-fiction can be blurred. Your brain understands that which is made up, but chooses to shut it down.  Enzo the dog was more real than reality. He seeped into my psyche as much as some people I have known. I am forever changed for having been in his company. It brings you back to the age old question: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it—did it make a sound? Likewise: If a fictionally inspired encounter touches you—was the encounter real?

The reviewers were correct—the book deserved its 4 star+ rating. And my book group agreed—at least among those who actually read it.