To Dance with the White Dog: A Novel of Life, Loss, Mystery and Hope (RosettaBooks into Film Book 35)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
On the 25th anniversary of its first publication, here is the definitive edition of the book Archbishop Desmond Tutu called “a hauntingly beautiful story about love, family, and relationships,” now with a new preface from the author.
Sam Peek’s beloved wife of fifty-seven years, Cora, has died. His children are anxious. No one knows how Sam will survive. How can this elderly man live alone? How can he run a farm? How can he keep driving his dilapidated truck down to the fields where he cares for a few rows of pecan trees? When Sam begins telling his children about a dog that is white as a fresh-fallen snow but who is invisible to everyone else, well, his children are sure that grief and old age have finally overcome their father.
But whether the dog is real or not, Sam Peek, “one of the smartest men in the South when it comes to trees,” outsmarts everyone. Sam and the White Dog dance from the pages of this bittersweet novel and straight into the reader’s heart as the two share the mystery of life and begin together a warm and moving final rite of passage as life draws to a close.
young then. And in awe of every new thing she could see and touch. The orange orchards. The sea. Shrimp. Lobster. Crab. The rented house on a paved street—their first house. “It’s not very large.” “It’s what I want. Exactly what I want.” “We won’t be here long. Just until the job’s over.” “Maybe you can find another job, and we can stay.” “I don’t know. Hard to get jobs.” And they had found the dog on the road, and she had taken the dog up into her arms and cuddled it and wept because the
awake early and he did, in the predawn. He cooked his breakfast as usual in the darkened kitchen, adding a single pad of hot sausage to his oatmeal diet, and when he had eaten his fill, he mixed the scraps in a bowl and placed it on the porch step. Maybe the dog had wandered away for the last time, he reasoned, and had returned to stay; besides, he had no other need of the scraps. He bathed in a tub of hot water, hot as he could bear, and dressed in his work clothes and then slipped outside as
like to have fainted. You get him to tell you about it sometime.” James smiled. “I will.” “Well, we got to be going on, Neal,” he said. “Glad you came by, Sam,” Neal said solemnly. “You come over to see me.” “I’ll do that, Sam. I sure will. I’d like the company.” He talked late into the night with his son, sitting comfortably in his padded rocker, sharing his grape wine. He talked of Neal Lewis, vowing Neal had lied about him writing the poem, and he talked of the men on the porch of the
him. He had taken the druggist’s medicine earlier, but the pain was still very great, and he could not rest. He had not moved for hours, not since he had taken his journal from his desk to write in. His mouth was dry. He wanted water, but knew he could not rise from his chair and pull himself into the kitchen. He breathed in a shallow sucking through his opened lips. A film of perspiration coated his forehead. He could hear from the living room the steady sizzling of the television, which he had
Sam Peek called for her in his yard. He had been watching from the window of the living room with his wife because Sam Peek had told them the white dog would not show herself if anyone was in the yard with him, and they had agreed with looks of agreement between them that they would do as Sam Peek wished. “That dog ain’t around here,” he had whispered to Mildred. “We might find it up the road, but it ain’t around here. Our dogs would’ve been barking.” And then Sam Peek had clapped his hands once