For the dog dad who would not, aloud, call himself that.

A hardcover storybook about the dog who has organised his mornings, his couch, and his weekends. A hardcover.

A dog dad gift is for the man who already has everything except this.

He will tell you he does not need anything. He will tell you the kitchen drawer is fine, the watch still works, the boots have a year in them. He will not tell you what he wants because what he wants is something he does not yet know exists — a book about the dog, on the shelf, with the dog's name in foil. We make that book. We make it well.

You have watched him with the dog at six a.m., before anyone else is up. You have watched him say the dog's name in a voice he uses for nothing else. You have watched him reorganise a weekend around the dog's vet appointment without complaining. You know what the dog is to him, even if he will not, on a Tuesday, say so.

What the book says, in his register.

You give us the dog's name and three details — the morning routine, the friend at the end of the block, the small repeated noise the dog makes at the kitchen door. Juno writes the story in the long-tense register — plain sentences, real details, no exclamation marks. The book is illustrated for this one book. The book is hardcover, matte-printed, with a colophon at the back, in a plain box.

This is not a coffee-table book. It is not a joke. It is the book equivalent of him saying the dog's name in the voice he uses for nothing else — made object, on the shelf, on a Sunday morning, near the chair he reads in. He will not say much about it. That is the correct response.

Eighty-five dollars. One edition. One named dog.

The book arrives in a plain box in roughly two weeks. You give it to him on Father's Day, on his birthday, on the Sunday after. He opens it. He reads the first page out loud to the dog. The dog, of course, is asleep. He keeps reading anyway.


More from the press.

sundayfawn

a storybook no one else has ever read.

The press, indexed

Browse the full catalogue