Called this at page 108. The book is so corny and sappy and takes such an over-simplified approach to life and death for people with mental illness I just could not abide another page. I should know not to read books where the main characters are dogs. Some of my best freinds have been dogs, but I did not love them for their intellect and insight, their ability to see life in a holistic way. I loved those dogs because they have none of those things. They have unquestioning love and loyalty, and if they have thoughts beyond "I love you" "I want to play, please play" and "people food, please please please" I don't want to know. Auster knows how to craft a sentence, but this book reads like the work of a pretentious Nicholas Sparks, which is the worst of all worlds.