Tender and satiric, hilarious and humane, Dogwalker plunks readers down in a land of misfits and the circumstantially strange–where one young man buys drugs from a dealer who locks his customers in a closet, while another lands a cat-faced circus freak for a roommate, and yet another must choose between his pregnant wife and the ten-pound slug he’s convinced will bring him a fortune. And throughout these stories moves a divinely inspired collection of dogs: three-legged, no-legged, dogs that sing, that talk, and that give birth to humans. Brilliant, perplexing, and moving, this is a daring debut that strolls along society’s fringes and unearths strange beauty among its misfits “Funny and huge-hearted. . . . Reminds us how much smarter the back of the brain is than the front.” – Esquire “The most outlandish and energetic writer I can think of.” –David Sedaris “[Bradford’s] desire to talk about the heart in a way that’s not navel-gazing, but rather earnest and real, burns through. Dogwalker soars. . . .” – San Francisco Chronicle “Anyone who’s ever wondered at the weirdness of the world will be grateful for these offerings.” —Entertainment Weekly “Bradford conjures weird modern-Gothic worlds that obey the carnival logic of dreams. His stories are stealthily tender and strangely moving.” – Bookforum Tender and satiric, hilarious and humane, Dogwalker plunks readers down in a land of misfits and the circumstantially strange?where one young man buys drugs from a dealer who locks his customers in a closet, while another lands a cat-faced circus freak for a roommate, and yet another must choose between his pregnant wife and the ten-pound slug he?s convinced will bring him a fortune. And throughout these stories moves a divinely inspired collection of dogs: three-legged, no-legged, dogs that sing, that talk, and that give birth to humans. Brilliant, perplexing, and moving, this is a daring debut that strolls along society?s fringes and unearths strange beauty among its misfits Tender and satiric, hilarious and humane, Dogwalker plunks readers down in a land of misfits and the circumstantially strange-where one young man buys drugs from a dealer who locks his customers in a closet, while another lands a cat-faced circus freak for a roommate, and yet another must choose between his pregnant wife and the ten-pound slug he's convinced will bring him a fortune. And throughout these stories moves a divinely inspired collection of dogs: three-legged, no-legged, dogs that sing, that talk, and that give birth to humans. Brilliant, perplexing, and moving, this is a daring debut that strolls along society's fringes and unearths strange beauty among its misfits Arthur Bradford's fiction has appeared in McSweeney's, Esquire , and The O. Henry Awards . He is also the creator and director of How's Your News? , a traveling news show produced by the denizens of Camp Jabberwocky, the oldest camp for adults with disabilities in the country. Catface part 1 room for rent The disability payments were being cut down since, according to their doctor, I was getting better. I had been without work for months and needed money so I decided to share my place and split the cost. My place was small. They called it a “studio apartment,” which meant it had only one room. The kitchen was set off in the corner and my little bed sat over against the opposite wall. It was a cozy arrangement. My first roommate was a guy named Thurber. He breathed very heavily through his nose and when he spoke the words came out in high-pitched squeaks. Thurber moved quickly with jerks and twists like spasms and for a while I thought he was diseased. He had dark circles under his eyes. Before he moved in I had placed two small green plants on the windowsill but once Thurber saw those he pitched them out the window. “Damn plants!” he yelled after them. Later on I brought in a larger banana plant and he screamed at me, “Get that fucking plant out of here!” Thurber had answered my ad for roommate-wanted by showing up at my door with his bags. I am a somewhat meek person and I let him stay even though I was suspicious of his shifty appearance. Thurber said he was a good cook and would prepare fine meals for me. I said, great, I like good food as much as the next guy. As it turned out Thurber hardly ever cooked and when he did he made a chaotic mess which sat there for days until I cleaned it up myself. Thurber’s taste in food was always too hot for my palate and his dishes usually looked nothing like whatever he said they were supposed to be. “This is Lemon Chicken,” he once said. But the food in question looked more like baked beans, or maybe some kind of Sloppy Joe. Thurber snored loudly, too, and this was finally why he had to leave. “Thurber,” I said, “you snore like a pig and I can’t sleep. Perhaps you should find somewhere else to go.” “I don’t snore,” replied Thurber, but he left the next afternoon. As he packed up his stuff he casually s