A little over two years ago, I wrote the following about Brianna Madia’s first novel, Nowhere for Very Long: “It tastes like sunbaked earth that leads to a hidden spring that no one knows about but you. It smells like flowers growing wild and untamed. It sounds like howling at the moon.” I was hoping for more of the same with her sophomore attempt, Never Leave the Dogs Behind (HarperOne 2024).
The publisher sent me an advanced copy, but that pesky stroke happened and my reading training wheels are on, so I’m just now getting to it. It’s a slim volume and a quick read, but there are countless pages of the things left unsaid. And there’s power in what isn’t said. Strength in what Madia choose to leave out.
Never Leave the Dogs Behind is a beauty in the breakdown collection, a raw madness that tastes like blood, sharp against your tongue, and salt from sweat and tears. It’s a collection of someone being torn down to the studs and figuring out how to rebuild, but more importantly how to see the stars from the wreckage. It’s heartbeat, however, is the love letter to the pets that tether us and keep us putting one foot in front of the other.
Much like the first volume, Never Leave the Dogs Behind howls; however, before it howled with a reckless abandon. Now, it’s a wounded animal as Madia splays her trauma. It’s voyeuristic, but I take comfort in knowing she reclaimed her narrative.
Much like Dags, I imagine Madia will always be wild. I’ll keep an eye out, just past the Juniper trees, for them both. And hope for the stories that smell like just before rain.
Read this book.
A Girl Named Tommi 