This is probably a very nice book. There’s nothing wrong with the writing, and there were occasional turns of phrase and flashes of wit that I enjoyed. Randolph the Labrador Retriever was generally charming. (Although really – Proust? Come on. Why would such a nice dog read Proust? Most of the *people* I know who read Proust are pretentious and uninteresting. Randolph should be reading Dashiell Hammet or Wilfred Thesiger – mysteries, travel and adventure.)
The characters are very…precious. The mystery seemed a bit forced – it was really just an excuse for Randolph to check his email while his clueless owner stumbled about.
Maybe I’m just not ready for an internet-surfing dog right now. I think it’s for the best if this book and I just go our separate ways. After all, we’ll always have Manhattan.