Another book I’m reading at the moment is a fun detective mystery. The reason it’s so intriguing is because the main character is a dog named Chet. His master, Bernie, is the detective but Chet is the one that usually solves the crime first, and helps out along the way. Here is a fun scene where they have just gone into their back yard and found a stray tennis ball.
Bernie was gazing up at the sky. A beautiful night–soft breeze, lots of stars, lights twinkling down the canyon, and what was this? A new tennis ball on the lawn. I went over and sniffed it. Not one of mine, not anyone’s I knew.
“Wanna play fetch?”
I pawed the thing. How did it get here? Cooped up all day, but I’d kept an ear cocked, except for when I dozed off, of course.
“Bring it here, Chet.”
I didn’t want to, not with this stranger’s smell on it.
But I never said no to Bernie. I gave the ball a lick or two, making it mine, then took it over to Bernie and dropped it at his feet. Bernie reared back and threw the ball up the canyon road.
“Uh-oh–where’d it go?”
Where’d it go? He really couldn’t see it? That never failed to surprise me, how poorly he saw after the sun went down. I tore after the ball, bouncing up the middle of the road in plain sight, got my back feet way forward and sprang, totally airborne, snaring it on the short hop, the way I like, then wheeling around in one skidding motion and racing full speed, head low, ears flattened by the wind I was making, and dropped it at Bernie’s feet, putting on the brakes at the last moment. If you know something more fun than this, let me in on the secret.
[Dog On It, by Spencer Quinn, pg. 2-3]