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Summary
Summary
A moving, beautiful, hilarious story of one dog's attempt to save his family, become a star, and eat a lot of bacon.
Author Notes
Carlie Sorosiak grew up in North Carolina. She has a master's in English from Oxford University and another in publishing from City, University of London. She is the author of two novels for young adults, If Birds Fly Back and Wild Blue Wonder . Her goals include traveling to all seven continents and fostering a wide variety of animals. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and her American dingo.
Reviews (1)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Narrator Cosmo, a 13-year-old hound, may be getting up there in dog years and suffering from slight arthritis, but he remains dedicated to his purpose in life: "doggedly" protecting his boy--12-year-old Max--and his family. Lately, though, Max and his younger sister, Emmaline, have been anxious about their parents' fighting. Despite their uncle Reggie's return from Afghanistan, a source of joy to all, things remain strained and angry, and Max fears that he will be separated from Cosmo half the time if his parents split up. When Reggie, a dog trainer, takes Max and Cosmo to a club where dogs and their humans learn to canine freestyle, training to compete for a role in a dance film, Max decides that winning the contest will keep his family together. Cosmo, who has always longed to dance, commits wholeheartedly despite reservations ("My bones are too achy"). Sorosiak (Wild Blue Wonder) offers Cosmo a combination of wisdom and innocence that feel truly dog-like as his warm voice conveys Max and Cosmo's mutual affection--the steady and heartwarming constant in both their lives. Touching, bittersweet, and true, this book will appeal to anyone who has loved a pet. Ages 8--12. (Dec.)
Excerpts
Excerpts
1. This year I am a turtle. I do not want to be a turtle. "His tail's between his legs," Max notes, cocking his head. Worry spreads across his wonderful face. "You think the hat's too tight?" We are on the porch, and the strange pumpkin is smiling at us -- the one Max carved last week, scooping out its guts. I ate the seeds even though he told me "No, Cosmo, no." I find it difficult to stop myself when something smells so interesting and so new. Max's father, whose name is Dad, readjusts the turtle vest on my back. "Nah, he's fine. He loves it! Look at him!" This is one of those times -- those infinite times -- when I wish my tongue did not loll in my mouth. Because I would say, in perfect human language, that turtles are inferior creatures who cannot manage to cross roads, and I have crossed many roads, off-leash, by myself. This costume is an embarrassment. At a loss, I roll gently onto my back, kicking my legs in the air. An ache creaks down my spine; I am not young like I used to be. But hopefully Max will understand the subtle meaning in my gesture. "Dad, I really think he doesn't like it." Yes, Max! Yes! Scratching the fur on his chin, Dad says to me, "Okay, okay, no hat, but you've gotta keep the shell." And just like that, a small victory. Emmaline bursts onto the porch then. She is all energy. She glows. "Cosmooooo." Her little hands ruffle my ears, and it reminds me why I am a turtle in the first place -- because Emmaline picked it out. Because it made her happy. I've long accepted that this is one of my roles. Max grabs Emmaline's hand and spins her around, like they're dancing. Her purple superhero cape twirls with the movement. Last week, I helped Mom make the costume: guarding the fabric, keeping watch by her feet, and every once and a while, she held up her progress and asked me, "Whaddya think, Cosmo?" A wonder, I told her with my eyes. It is a wonder. "Shouldn't we wait for Mom?" Max asks. He is dressed in dark colors, patches on his shirt, and I suppose he is a cow or a giraffe, although I do not like thinking of him as either. Giraffes are remarkably stupid creatures, and Max is very, very smart. He can speak three languages, build model rockets, and fold his tongue into a four-leaf clover. He can even unscrew the lids off peanut butter jars. I'd like to see a giraffe do that. Dad replies, "She's late. Don't want to miss all the good candy." Max says, "I just think --" But Dad cuts him off with "Ready, Freddy," which he is fond of saying, despite the fact that Max is called Max. After a pause, the four of us set off into the bluish night. Our house is a one-story brick structure with plenty of grass and a swing set that only Emmaline uses now. Paper lanterns line the driveway, lighting up the cul-de-sac. The fur on the back of my neck begins to rise. Halloween is the worst night of the year. If you disagree, please take a moment to consider my logic: 1. Most Halloween candy is chocolate. My fourth Halloween, I consumed six miniature Hershey's bars and was immediately rushed to the emergency vet, where I spent four hours with an incredible tummy ache. 2. Young humans jump out from behind bushes and yell "Boo!" This is confusing. One of my best friends, a German shorthaired pointer, is named Boo. 3. Clowns. 4. Golden retrievers, like myself, are too dignified for costumes. I am not entirely opposed to raincoats if the occasion arises, but there is a line. For example, Mom bought me a cat costume once, and I have yet to wholly recover from the trauma. 5. The sheepdog is let loose. Allow me to elaborate on this fifth point. I have never had an appetite for confrontation -- not even when I was a puppy. But I make an exception for the sheepdog. Five Halloweens ago, on a night just like this, Max and I approached a white-shingled house at the end of the street. A big, blocky van idled by the mailbox, and a roast-chicken smell wafted from two open windows. I knew immediately that we had new neighbors -- the old neighbors were strictly beef-eaters. An eerie quietness settled over the street, a dark cloud moving to block the moon. So quick that I did not even see it coming, the sheepdog emerged from behind a massive oak tree in their front yard. It was wearing an ominous pink tutu and fairy wings, its gray-and-white fur standing on end. My immediate reaction was empathy -- hadn't we both succumbed to the same costumed fate? I began to trot over in my bunny outfit, intent on bowing in commiseration, and then welcoming it to the neighborhood with a friendly sniff of its butt. What happened next was not friendly. I have never seen anything like it in my thirteen years. The sheepdog bared its teeth, a menacing snarl directed straight at me . . . And I swear its eyes glowed red. I was horrified. There are few things that truly frighten me: trips in the back of pickup trucks, the vacuum (the sound, the sharp smell, the way things disappear inside it), and anytime Max or Emmaline are in danger. That night, as the sheepdog cast a final red-eyed glance in my direction, its ears back and incisors gleaming, I added one more thing to the list. Excerpted from I, Cosmo by Carlie Sorosiak All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.