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Blurb

The USA Today bestselling author of How to Eat a Cupcake and All the Summer Girls returns with an unforgettably poignant and funny tale of love and loss, confronting our fears, and moving on . . . with the help of a poodle, a mutt, and a Basset retriever named Seymour

As a pet bereavement counselor, Maggie Brennan uses a combination of empathy, insight, and humor to help patients cope with the anguish of losing their beloved four-legged friends. Though she has a gift for guiding others through difficult situations, Maggie has major troubles of her own that threaten the success of her counseling practice and her volunteer work with a dog rescue organization.

Everything changes when a distraught woman shows up at Maggie’s office and claims that her dog has been stolen. Searching the streets of San Francisco for the missing pooch, Maggie finds herself entangled in a mystery that forces her to finally face her biggest fear-and to open her heart to new love.

Packed with deep emotion and charming surprises, Dog Crazy is a bighearted and entertaining story that skillfully captures the bonds of love, the pain of separation, and the power of our dogs to heal us.

Link to Follow Tour:  http://www.tastybooktours.com/2015/02/dog-crazy-novel-of-love-lost-and-found.html

Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22573873-dog-crazy?from_search=true

Author Info

Meg Donohue is the USA Today bestselling author of How to Eat a Cupcake and All the Summer Girls. She has an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University and a BA in comparative literature from Dartmouth College. Born and raised in Philadelphia, she now lives in San Francisco with her husband, three young daughters, and dog.

Author Links:  Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads  

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(Print Book Bundle of Meg’s Releases including:
ALL THE SUMMER GIRLS, HOW TO EAT A CUPCAKE & DOG CRAZY)

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EXCERPT

Leanne’s  face softens into a smile, but I can tell there’s  still a note of concern there, so I force myself tostay and watch as she searches in her bag for her car keys and then noses her old green Mercedes back andforth what seems like a hundred times, providing plenty of ammunition for my theory that there’s  an inversecorrelation between driving skill and vehicle size. When she finally frees the car from its parking spot, shebeeps and gives a jaunty wave.

I plaster on a grin and wave both of my trembling hands in the air above my head. It’s only when I catch aglimpse of Leanne’s face screwing into a puzzled expression that I realize I must look like one of those peoplewho direct planes out of air- port gates. Or maybe a Bhangra dancer.

I wait until her car turns out of sight before spinning around and hurrying back down the path to myapartment.

The relief floods through me as soon as I’m inside. I make a beeline for the bathroom and scrub my hands inthe sink. Leanne looked like the picture of health, but you never know the truth until it’s too late. The water is sohot that my skin turns pink. I persevere, humming the “Happy Birthday” song twice under my breath—a handylittle tip I picked up during a recent study of the Centers for Disease Control’s website. When I read the CDC’sadvice, I immediately wondered if my mother knew it. I managed to stop myself from calling her in Philadelphiaand asking, but I can’t stop myself from thinking of her every time I put my hands below that scalding waterand watch my skin change color.

I shut off the water and listen as my shallow, uneven breathing slowly quiets.

Ninety–eight, I think.

I look at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I’m paler now than I was when I moved here, but my eyebrows are un-changed: amber-colored,  well defined, expressive. My best friend, Lourdes, tells me I have trustworthy brows. She calls themmy moneymakers. Who knows? She might be right. Even the most reticent patient eventually  reveals her secrets to me . . .black pieces of coal held so tight they’ve turned into sharp, gleaming diamonds.

“Ninety-eight,” I say aloud. It’s an interesting number, the silky shimmy of ninety, the slammed door of eight. Isay the number again. Tomorrow a new one will take its place and it seems impor- tant I keep track. “Ninety-eight.”

It’s been ninety-eight  days since I set foot beyond that gate at the sidewalk.