Considering DeMott’s writing, sans Steinbeck, I freely admit that I know very little about birds or dogs really, and could only pick a bird dog out of a pack because I've read DeMott. (I have been “bird-dogged” but that’s a different kind of review for a different author….) I know even less about fly fishing. What I am certain of is that DeMott’s writing has much to do with birds, dogs, flies, and fish, but even more about the human condition. DeMott writes about living and losing, friends and lovers, Midwest weather, and moving on. DeMott writes about what matters. And, in a manner that begs you to rest, just close enough to a snapping pot-bellied stove, dog at your foot, strong drink in hand, and read him aloud. Then, compels you to write in the margin, dog-ear that page, and read it again.