A Dog's Purpose

A DOG’S PURPOSE

Table of Contents

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Teaser:
A Dog’s Journey

Teaser:
The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man

Copyright

TO CATHRYN
For doing everything, for being everything

So many people have helped me in so many ways to get me from where I started to where I am today, I hardly know where to begin the task of identifying them all—and where to
stop
is even more perplexing a choice. So let me state for the record that I know that as both a writer and a person I am a work in progress who thus far is a sum of all I’ve learned and experienced, and that I owe everything to the people who have taught me, helped me, and supported me.

I do want to make sure I acknowledge some of the writings I used in my research into how dogs think.
Dogwatching
, by Desmond Morris.
What the Dogs Have Taught Me
, by Merrill Markoe.
The Hidden Life of Dogs
, by Elizabeth Marshall Thomas.
Search and Rescue Dogs
, by the American Rescue Dog Association. The works of Cesar Millan, James Herriot, Dr. Marty Becker, and Gina Spadafori.

I wouldn’t be anything without the support of my family, especially my parents, who have always believed in my writing despite a couple of decades’ worth of rejection notices.

Also believing in me is my agent, Scott Miller, at Trident Media, who never gave up, not on this book, not on me.

Scott’s efforts led me to Tor/Forge and my editor, Kristin Sevick, whose faith in
A Dog’s Purpose
, combined with a careful eye and an expert touch, refined and improved this novel. She and everyone else at Tor/Forge have been a delight to work with.

As I write these words, this book hasn’t yet gone to press, and already there are so many people working to support it. Sheryl Johnston, who is a great publicist and a terror behind the wheel. Lisa Nash, who reached out to her vast network to help validate the voice of this book. Buzz Yancey, who tried to create, well, buzz. Hillary Carlip, who took on the task of redesigning
wbrucecameron.com
and created
adogspurpose.com
and succeeded so fabulously. Amy Cameron, who applied her years of teaching experience to the task of writing a study guide for any educator who wants to use
A Dog’s Purpose
in the classroom. Geoffery Jennings, bookseller extraordinaire, who gave an early draft his thumbs-up. Lisa Zupan, who gets it.

Thanks to all the editors who carry my column in their newspapers, despite the turmoil in the industry. Thanks especially to
The Denver Post
, which picked me up after the sad demise of the
Rocky Mountain News
. Thanks, Anthony Zurcher, for doing such a great job editing my column for all these years.

Thanks to Brad Rosenfeld and Paul Weitzman at Preferred Artists, for preferring me, and to Lauren Lloyd, for managing everything.

Thanks, Steve Younger and Hayes Michael, for all the legal work—I still think we should plead insanity.

Thanks, Bob Bridges, for continuing his volunteer work on my column’s mistakes and typos. I wish I could afford to pay you one hundred times your current salary.

Thanks, Claire LaZebnik, for coming out on the ledge to talk to me about writing.

Thanks, Tom Rooker, for whatever the heck it is that you’re doing.

Thanks to Big Al and Evie, for investing themselves in my “genius” career. Thanks, Ted, Maria, Jakob, Maya, and Ethan, for admiring my pants.

Thanks to everyone in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, for trying to keep us all off the endangered species list.

Thanks, Georgia Lee Cameron, who introduced me to the world of dog rescue.

Thanks, Bill Belsha, for the work you did on my head.

Thanks, Jennifer Altabef, for being there when I needed you.

Thanks, Alberto Alejandro, for almost single-handedly making me a bestselling author.

Thank you, Kurt Hamilton, for motivating me to make sure there was nothing seriously wrong with the pipes.

Thanks to Julie Cypher, for loaning me everything she owns.

Thanks, Marcia Wallace, you are my favorite action figure.

Thanks, Norma Vela, for all the horse sense.

Thanks, Molly, for the car ride, and Sierra, for letting it happen.

Thanks, Melissa Lawson, for providing the final cut.

Thanks, Betsy, Richard, Colin, and Sharon, for showing up for everything and for trying to teach me how to dance the rumba.

The very first person I told this story to was Cathryn Michon. Thank you, Cathryn, for insisting that I write
A Dog’s Purpose
immediately, and for everything else.

Now I understand why so many people are still talking when the music plays at the Academy Awards: the list of individuals I want to thank is simply endless. So let me just stop here, ending with one final note: I want to acknowledge the sacrifice and tireless hard work of the many men and women who work in animal rescue, helping lost, abandoned, and abused pets find new and happy lives with loving families. You are all angels.

A DOG’S PURPOSE

One day it occurred to me that the warm, squeaky, smelly things squirming around next to me were my brothers and sister. I was very disappointed.

Though my vision had resolved itself only to the point where I could distinguish fuzzy forms in the light, I knew that the large and beautiful shape with the long wonderful tongue was my mother. I had figured out that when the chill air struck my skin it meant she had gone somewhere, but when the warmth returned it would be time to feed. Often finding a place to suckle meant pushing aside what I now knew was the snout of a sibling seeking to crowd me out of my share, which was really irritating. I couldn’t see that my brothers and sister had any purpose whatsoever. When my mother licked my stomach to stimulate the flow of fluids from under my tail, I blinked up at her, silently
beseeching her to please get rid of the other puppies for me. I wanted her all to myself.

Gradually, the other dogs came into focus, and I grudgingly accepted their presence in the nest. My nose soon told me I had one sister and two brothers. Sister was only slightly less interested in wresting with me than my brothers, one of whom I thought of as Fast, because he somehow always moved more quickly than I could. The other one I mentally called Hungry, because he whimpered whenever Mother was gone and would suckle her with an odd desperation, as if it were never enough. Hungry slept more than my siblings and I did, so we often jumped on him and chewed on his face.

Our den was scooped out underneath the black roots of a tree, and was cool and dark during the heat of the day. The first time I tottered out into the sunlight, Sister and Fast accompanied me, and naturally Fast shoved his way to the front.

Of the four of us, only Fast had a splash of white on his face, and as he trotted jauntily forward this patch of fur flashed in the daylight.
I’m special,
Fast’s dazzling, star-shaped spot seemed to be declaring to the world. The rest of him was as mottled and unremarkably brown and black as I was. Hungry was several shades lighter and Sister shared Mother’s stubby nose and flattened forehead, but we all looked more or less the same, despite Fast’s prancing.

Our tree was perched on a creek bank, and I was delighted when Fast tumbled head over heels down the bank, though Sister and I plummeted with no more grace when we tried to make the same descent. Slippery rocks and a tiny trickle of water offered wonderful odors, and we followed the wet trail of the creek into a moist, cool cave—a culvert with metal sides. I knew instinctively that this was a good place to hide from danger, but
Mother was unimpressed with our find and hauled us unceremoniously back to the Den when it turned out our legs weren’t powerful enough to enable us to scale back up the bank.

We had learned the lesson that we couldn’t return to the nest on our own when we went down the bank, so as soon as Mother left the nest we did it again. This time Hungry joined us, though once he was in the culvert he sprawled in the cool mud and fell asleep.

Exploring seemed like the right thing to do—we needed to find other things to eat. Mother, getting impatient with us, was standing up when we weren’t even finished feeding, which I could only blame on the other dogs. If Hungry weren’t so relentless, if Fast weren’t so bossy, if Sister didn’t wiggle so much, I knew Mother would hold still and allow us to fill our bellies. Couldn’t I always coax her to lie down, usually with a sigh, when I reached up for her while she stood above us?

Often Mother would spend extra time licking Hungry while I seethed at the injustice.

By this time, Fast and Sister had both grown larger than I—my body was the same size, but my legs were shorter and stubbier. Hungry was the runt of the litter, of course, and it bothered me that Fast and Sister always abandoned me to play with each other, as if Hungry and I belonged together out of some sort of natural order in the pack.

Since Fast and Sister were more interested in each other than the rest of the family, I punished them by depriving them of my company, going off by myself deep into the culvert. I was sniffing at something deliciously dead and rotten one day when right in front of me a tiny animal exploded into the air—a frog!

Delighted, I leaped forward, attempting to pounce on it with
my paws, but the frog jumped again. It was afraid, although all I wanted to do was play and probably wouldn’t eat it.