For the dog mom whose son, or daughter, is forty pounds of opinion.

A hardcover storybook about the dog at the centre of her life. A hardcover. Matte-printed.

A dog mom gift is not a joke. It is a real gift, taken seriously.

She calls him her son. The phone wallpaper is him. The text thread with her sister is half him. The grandparents have learned to ask about him before they ask about her job. She knows that some people think this is a lot. She also knows that he is the steadiest, kindest, most attentive creature in her life. Both things are true. The press takes the second thing seriously.

What she has been given, mostly, is merchandise. The mug. The candle. The little ceramic figurine that looks vaguely like a Labrador. What she has not been given is an object that says, in long sentences, that the relationship is real — that the dog at the centre of her household is a named, painted, hardcover-bound presence. We make that object. We sign it at the colophon.

The book is about her dog, by name, in full.

You tell us his name. You tell us the four things you know about him — the food he refuses, the friend at the end of the block, the noise he makes when she opens the cupboard, the spot on the bed he owns. Juno writes the story. The book is illustrated for this one book. The book is hardcover, matte-printed, in a plain box.

The portrait of him on the cover is painted, not photo-derived. The breed is rendered honestly. The book reads like a real book, in our literary register — not a coffee-table joke, not a baby book retrofitted for a dog. She will keep it on the shelf with the books her parents read to her.

Eighty-five dollars. One edition. One named son, or daughter.

The book ships in a plain box in roughly two weeks. You can wrap it or you can leave it in the plain box. She opens it. She does not say anything for a moment. The dog walks across the page, in the room, and the small joke of that is what she will tell you about.


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