I’m hitting the stacks of my local library tomorrow in the hopes of uncovering some new gems in the genre I call “pet-lit.” In the past, I’ve explained that I can’t get enough of great pet-lit…perhaps because there ain’t much of it out there.
The White Fangs and Black Beautys of the past are exactly that…way in the past. Why is it we can’t find great new pet-lit now that books are so dime-a-dozen relative to their past tricklish production?
Sure, Marley and Me calls out to me…because there’s just about nothing else out there. And IMHO, this feckless tome does nothing for me compared to the likes of James Herriot (All Creatures…) or even Walter Farley (The Black Stallion).
Could it be in part due to our children’s migration from animal stories to other forms of entertainment? To our children’s preference for anything as long as it isn’t a book they’re being forced to read for school?
It’s now as if pet-lit is the new chick-lit, the literary equivalent of lipstick for gals who need a little pick-me-up, instead of the formative fiction for children and young adults in which we hope to instill a sense of empathy and other moral niceties.
But then, these are the days of Harry Potter. And thank God for he-who-shall-fuel-theme-park-attendance, for without Him, our kids would be reading next to nothing at all.
OK so I digress…majorly…so here’s where I get to my point: I need books and I trust your judgment. Give me something fun to read—even if it’s a bygone classic I’ve somehow overlooked…