Death & Grief
![Rick Bragg - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000APECJ0.jpg)
The Speckled Beauty: A Dog and His People
NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER • From the best-selling, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of All Over but the Shoutin', the warmhearted and hilarious story of how his life was transformed by his love for a poorly behaved, half-blind stray dog.
Speck is not a good boy. He is a terrible boy, a defiant, self-destructive, often malodorous boy, a grave robber and screen door moocher who spends his days playing chicken with the Fed Ex man, picking fights with thousand-pound livestock, and rolling in donkey manure, and his nights howling at the moon. He has been that way since the moment he appeared on the ridgeline behind Rick Bragg's house, a starved and half-dead creature, seventy-six pounds of wet hair and poor decisions.
Speck arrived in Rick's life at a moment of looming uncertainty. A cancer diagnosis, chemo, kidney failure, and recurring pneumonia had left Rick lethargic and melancholy. Speck helped, and he is helping, still, when he is not peeing on the rose of Sharon. Written with Bragg's inimitable blend of tenderness and sorrow, humor and grit, The Speckled Beauty captures the extraordinary, sustaining devotion between two damaged creatures who need each other to heal.
Speck is not a good boy. He is a terrible boy, a defiant, self-destructive, often malodorous boy, a grave robber and screen door moocher who spends his days playing chicken with the Fed Ex man, picking fights with thousand-pound livestock, and rolling in donkey manure, and his nights howling at the moon. He has been that way since the moment he appeared on the ridgeline behind Rick Bragg's house, a starved and half-dead creature, seventy-six pounds of wet hair and poor decisions.
Speck arrived in Rick's life at a moment of looming uncertainty. A cancer diagnosis, chemo, kidney failure, and recurring pneumonia had left Rick lethargic and melancholy. Speck helped, and he is helping, still, when he is not peeing on the rose of Sharon. Written with Bragg's inimitable blend of tenderness and sorrow, humor and grit, The Speckled Beauty captures the extraordinary, sustaining devotion between two damaged creatures who need each other to heal.
Editorial Reviews
"This is a witty, moving love letter to one extraordinary dog-and an ode to the transformative powers of his kind." -People Magazine [Book of the Week]
"This moving book is a literary ode to canine love." -The Washington Post
"Pulitzer Prize-winning memoirist Rick Bragg (The Best Cook in the World; My Southern Journey) grew out of rural Southern poverty, but the spirit of his storytelling has made him-and legions of readers-rich beyond measure . . . Amid dark days, bright Speck shows up at just the right time. How fortunate for readers that the joy of his presence-enhanced by the wit and wisdom of Bragg's inimitable prose-will resonate far beyond the Bragg homestead." -Kathleen Gerard, Shelf Awareness
"If you're a dog lover and want to treat yourself to a beautifully written story that will make your whole self smile, read this memoir by Rick Bragg. His writing is so powerful that it made my heart weep. Savor this book." – Florida Times-Union
"I knew from the beginning that I would love The Speckled Beauty, but I did not realize just how much. Once I began this memoir, I did not want to put it down. Though Speck is the center of the story, Bragg's compassionate portraits of his family members made me love them all. As the family grows and changes, so too does Speck, and Bragg creates a profoundly moving tableau." -Ashley Riggleson, The Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star
"Bragg has done it again, focusing his lyrical prose on one aspect of his Southern roots while managing to embrace much larger terrain in the process . . . [The Speckled Beauty] delights the senses and is as honest as the day is long."
-David Holahan, USA Today
"Bragg's descriptions are vivid, his use of colorful place names is enchanting, and while the story is Speck's, whenever Bragg turns the camera on himself you find you like and empathize with him a little more each time . . . ‘My people think a good story will fix just about anything,' Bragg writes, and in this case it might actually be true."
-Laurie Hertzel, Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Rick Bragg spins his mesmerizing tales of life down South with characteristically wry humor and wisdom . . . The Speckled Beauty takes its place beside Willie Morris' My Dog Skip, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' animal narratives and William Faulkner's dog stories-as well as all those short tales of devoted dogs in Field & Stream-confirming once more Bragg's enduring artfulness and cracking good ability to spin memorable, affectionate tales."
-Henry L. Carrigan Jr., BookPage [starred review]
"Bragg's story will resonate with dog lovers and with his many fan...
"This moving book is a literary ode to canine love." -The Washington Post
"Pulitzer Prize-winning memoirist Rick Bragg (The Best Cook in the World; My Southern Journey) grew out of rural Southern poverty, but the spirit of his storytelling has made him-and legions of readers-rich beyond measure . . . Amid dark days, bright Speck shows up at just the right time. How fortunate for readers that the joy of his presence-enhanced by the wit and wisdom of Bragg's inimitable prose-will resonate far beyond the Bragg homestead." -Kathleen Gerard, Shelf Awareness
"If you're a dog lover and want to treat yourself to a beautifully written story that will make your whole self smile, read this memoir by Rick Bragg. His writing is so powerful that it made my heart weep. Savor this book." – Florida Times-Union
"I knew from the beginning that I would love The Speckled Beauty, but I did not realize just how much. Once I began this memoir, I did not want to put it down. Though Speck is the center of the story, Bragg's compassionate portraits of his family members made me love them all. As the family grows and changes, so too does Speck, and Bragg creates a profoundly moving tableau." -Ashley Riggleson, The Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star
"Bragg has done it again, focusing his lyrical prose on one aspect of his Southern roots while managing to embrace much larger terrain in the process . . . [The Speckled Beauty] delights the senses and is as honest as the day is long."
-David Holahan, USA Today
"Bragg's descriptions are vivid, his use of colorful place names is enchanting, and while the story is Speck's, whenever Bragg turns the camera on himself you find you like and empathize with him a little more each time . . . ‘My people think a good story will fix just about anything,' Bragg writes, and in this case it might actually be true."
-Laurie Hertzel, Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Rick Bragg spins his mesmerizing tales of life down South with characteristically wry humor and wisdom . . . The Speckled Beauty takes its place beside Willie Morris' My Dog Skip, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' animal narratives and William Faulkner's dog stories-as well as all those short tales of devoted dogs in Field & Stream-confirming once more Bragg's enduring artfulness and cracking good ability to spin memorable, affectionate tales."
-Henry L. Carrigan Jr., BookPage [starred review]
"Bragg's story will resonate with dog lovers and with his many fan...
Readers Top Reviews
KorenMolly KewlWindb
Rick Bragg is one of the few authors that I will pre-order his books as soon as I hear he has a new one coming. I love his easy, lyrical way of writing and will at some point get all of his books in audio format just to hear his voice. While I don't think this will be my favorite book by him, it still warms my heart for the love he has for this poor, stray dog that he took under his wing. Few people would adopt such a dog, let alone fall in love with it and I love that (spoiler alert!) the dog does not die in the end. I was also set for the brother to die but I was glad he didn't. One thing I kept wondering about through the entire book was what happened to his wife and step-son. In the book he is living with his mother. He previously published a book that was entirely about his relationship with his step-son and there is no mention of him in this book. Kind of curious about that.
Jan S.
I'm sad to finish this book. I loved it. I laughed, I cried. I really want a bad dog in my life. Well I'd settle for a good dog. Please Rick, keep writing.
Bette Barnett
My dog Louie, like Speck, is a bad dog. He growls, eats furniture and rugs, hates cats, rolls in all kinds of stink and generally makes my life hell. But this book taught me that “In a time when the days seem twice as long and the whole world drags, could it hurt to go out and find every awful, hopeless dog on every dirty street and desolate country road, and give them a home.” Louie has taught me that dog love is not only on my terms. When I say “want a cuddle?” He stands on his back legs and presses himself against me. I only manage him in this human world. But he loves himself first and then me in his dog world. This amazing book taught me how to love my bad dog. Read it.
I read it in just a few hours. It’s poignant, yet laugh out loud funny. Perfect book for the times we’re living in now.
Pennie M. Wolfe
There’s nothing to dislike about this wonderful book about an old stray that adopted the Bragg family. I bought it yesterday and stayed up all night reading it. I laughed and cried and kept a grin so big my jaws hurt. Rick, thanks again for another great one. I’m looking forward to your next. P.S~ give your sweet mama a hug from one of your biggest fans.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
The Dog I Had in Mind
2019
The cat in the waiting room looked us over, suspicious and superior. That's the way a cat will do you.
I sat with my dog, and worried. That morning, he had a bad, shaking cough, and choked when he tried to breathe. I heaved him, kicking, protesting, into the back seat of my pickup, and rushed him to the vet.
I thought he had just swallowed something unspeakable, and with this dog that could have been anything from a live toad to a welding glove. That, or he was just sick, or poisoned; there was no telling what terrible disease he might have picked up, toting a jawbone around for a chew toy. He had been my dog for about two years now, and had ingested things I cannot even say.
He was stuck fast to my knee, again. This did not mean I was his master, merely his alibi, coconspirator, bailsman, and the driver of his ambulance. Most people would have taken comfort in the fact their dog stuck so close to them. These people, I suspect, are not familiar with the term "guilt by association."
The nurse called his name, and I dragged him to the exam room on a leash. On the way he tried to water the dog food display like it was my mother's calla lilies, but I snatched him back. He gave the cat a look as we passed by.
Don't be here when I get back, Fluffy.
I don't like to read too much into the dog, and I don't like to pretend to speak for him, but in the two years or so since he arrived some things are just easy to translate.
In the exam room, he coughed so hard he seemed to vibrate, but wagged his tail, unconcerned. He is not a good boy, but he is a tough boy, and this was just one more scrap for him, just one more fight in a ditch.
The vet, Dr. Eric Clanton, called his cough "violent," and decided to do an X-ray to see if something was stuck in his windpipe. The nurse gave him a shot to knock him out, because it was not in his nature to behave or hold still just because someone asked him to, and he lay on the floor as the drug took effect, goofy and kind of lost.
"That's the best he's behaved since I got him," I told the nurses, trying to sound tough, but it broke my heart to see him like that. I reached down and rubbed his head, but he was out cold now, snuffling and drooling on the floor.
He is not the dog I had in mind.
I had in mind a good dog, in all the usual ways.
•
Just a few weeks before, I had been half asleep in a deep chair with a novel, The Italian Secretary by Caleb Carr, open on my chest. The television was on, the sound turned low. Rita Hayworth was singing a torch song and dancing in her bare feet. I could hear the dog outside, his bark fading in and out, drowning in the hollers, rising on the ridge. I remember there was a big, orange moon that night, almost like daylight. The dog went wackier than usual under a moon like that.
My sixtieth birthday had passed without a parade, but I was feeling old, used up, and no-account long before I approached that milestone. I had been falling apart and glued back together for some time, tired, grouchy, and confused, and still five years shy of what people here call their old-age pension. My excellent doctors, all eleven or twelve, told me I was damaged, undisciplined, self-destructive, probably doomed, and maybe maladjusted, but in no immediate peril. I might limp on a ways, with clean living and fine insurance. But this was not a walk I wanted to take on my own. I thought it might be nice, on this leg of the journey, to have an old, slow, easy dog to go with me.
I had in mind a fat dog, a gentle plodder that only slobbered an acceptable amount and would not chase a car even if the trunk was packed with pork chops. In my mind, we shuffled side by side along a smooth path that was always slightly downhill, in a season that was always sweatshirt weather, always just right. In the chest pocket of my old, frayed button-down there was always a fresh pack of Juicy Fruit; you will go through more than you would think, going no place special. In my mind, I had traded my boots and jeans for some spongy orthopedic shoes and a baggy pair of corduroy trousers; I always planned on getting some when I was too old to care. Here, in this easy make-believe, I always had an apple in my pocket, and a full bag of treats. A good dog, especially a fat one, will need a treat every mile or so. And together, my old dog and me would shuffle off into the sunset, though we might have to stop occasionally, for a nap.
I have always loved that notion that dogs bring out the best in us, and have always wanted to believe in something like that. Sometimes, when the melancholy is on me, I get a little lost in the bitter weeds, and I see a much more likely end for a man like me. ...
The Dog I Had in Mind
2019
The cat in the waiting room looked us over, suspicious and superior. That's the way a cat will do you.
I sat with my dog, and worried. That morning, he had a bad, shaking cough, and choked when he tried to breathe. I heaved him, kicking, protesting, into the back seat of my pickup, and rushed him to the vet.
I thought he had just swallowed something unspeakable, and with this dog that could have been anything from a live toad to a welding glove. That, or he was just sick, or poisoned; there was no telling what terrible disease he might have picked up, toting a jawbone around for a chew toy. He had been my dog for about two years now, and had ingested things I cannot even say.
He was stuck fast to my knee, again. This did not mean I was his master, merely his alibi, coconspirator, bailsman, and the driver of his ambulance. Most people would have taken comfort in the fact their dog stuck so close to them. These people, I suspect, are not familiar with the term "guilt by association."
The nurse called his name, and I dragged him to the exam room on a leash. On the way he tried to water the dog food display like it was my mother's calla lilies, but I snatched him back. He gave the cat a look as we passed by.
Don't be here when I get back, Fluffy.
I don't like to read too much into the dog, and I don't like to pretend to speak for him, but in the two years or so since he arrived some things are just easy to translate.
In the exam room, he coughed so hard he seemed to vibrate, but wagged his tail, unconcerned. He is not a good boy, but he is a tough boy, and this was just one more scrap for him, just one more fight in a ditch.
The vet, Dr. Eric Clanton, called his cough "violent," and decided to do an X-ray to see if something was stuck in his windpipe. The nurse gave him a shot to knock him out, because it was not in his nature to behave or hold still just because someone asked him to, and he lay on the floor as the drug took effect, goofy and kind of lost.
"That's the best he's behaved since I got him," I told the nurses, trying to sound tough, but it broke my heart to see him like that. I reached down and rubbed his head, but he was out cold now, snuffling and drooling on the floor.
He is not the dog I had in mind.
I had in mind a good dog, in all the usual ways.
•
Just a few weeks before, I had been half asleep in a deep chair with a novel, The Italian Secretary by Caleb Carr, open on my chest. The television was on, the sound turned low. Rita Hayworth was singing a torch song and dancing in her bare feet. I could hear the dog outside, his bark fading in and out, drowning in the hollers, rising on the ridge. I remember there was a big, orange moon that night, almost like daylight. The dog went wackier than usual under a moon like that.
My sixtieth birthday had passed without a parade, but I was feeling old, used up, and no-account long before I approached that milestone. I had been falling apart and glued back together for some time, tired, grouchy, and confused, and still five years shy of what people here call their old-age pension. My excellent doctors, all eleven or twelve, told me I was damaged, undisciplined, self-destructive, probably doomed, and maybe maladjusted, but in no immediate peril. I might limp on a ways, with clean living and fine insurance. But this was not a walk I wanted to take on my own. I thought it might be nice, on this leg of the journey, to have an old, slow, easy dog to go with me.
I had in mind a fat dog, a gentle plodder that only slobbered an acceptable amount and would not chase a car even if the trunk was packed with pork chops. In my mind, we shuffled side by side along a smooth path that was always slightly downhill, in a season that was always sweatshirt weather, always just right. In the chest pocket of my old, frayed button-down there was always a fresh pack of Juicy Fruit; you will go through more than you would think, going no place special. In my mind, I had traded my boots and jeans for some spongy orthopedic shoes and a baggy pair of corduroy trousers; I always planned on getting some when I was too old to care. Here, in this easy make-believe, I always had an apple in my pocket, and a full bag of treats. A good dog, especially a fat one, will need a treat every mile or so. And together, my old dog and me would shuffle off into the sunset, though we might have to stop occasionally, for a nap.
I have always loved that notion that dogs bring out the best in us, and have always wanted to believe in something like that. Sometimes, when the melancholy is on me, I get a little lost in the bitter weeds, and I see a much more likely end for a man like me. ...
