Introduction

Jack of Hearts is a novel of literary fiction told from the point of view of a small, aristocratic dog named Shimoni. This imaginative first novel explores themes of fidelity and honor and offers a fresh perspective of Italian culture and amore.

Shimoni's passion for Italian cuisine and Elvis are rivaled only by his devotion to his masters, a Roman Count and Countess. However, his discovery that Il Conte is having an affair imperils his comfortable life and plunges Shimoni into a quest to rekindle his masters' love and preserve his home.

The path to reconciliation leads Shimoni from the bustling streets of Rome to his owners' rustic villa in the Italian countryside, where he outwits man and beast to save his family, all while making time to fall in love and sample the local Chianti. Shimoni's (mis)adventures yield poignant observations about the nature of love and longing, and the soul's ability to find satisfaction.

An intoxicating blend of adventure, romance, and joi de vivre, Jack of Hearts will appeal to literary devotees, Italophiles and dog-lovers. Author, Robin F. Gainey dishes up a sensuous story with plenty of heart, and empathy for the human, as well as the canine condition.

"A wonderful, funny and touching novel. Shimoni is not simply a dog, he is our guide; he is our friend. Stay by his side, stay with his heart, and he will take you places you haven't been, and show you things you haven't seen: after reading Jack Of Hearts you will understand the true depths of love and devotion."
--Garth Stein, The Art Of Racing In The Rain

"This novel has freshness, originality and a huge heart of gold. Shimoni is one of the most unforgettable narrators I've ever read, and does he have a story to tell! I loved everything about this book."
--Susan Wiggs, NY Times Best-Selling Romance Novelist, Just Breathe

"This is a most heartfelt and extraordinary work for a first novel. Ms. Gainey moves easily out of the realities of our everyday lives into an unexpected turn of canine spirit. It is an intriguing and wonderful read."
--Lynn Andrews, NY Times Best-Selling Author of Medicine Woman

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

I dropped my nostrils into the lusty odor. In the gutter beside me laid a large dead rat, belly bloated by a day or two of rot. I gave it an advisory sniff, and then stepped back. The rodent had taken on the warning of a three-day rule. Even a dog meant for hunting small game had limits. I considered giving the corpse a roll. The stink alone would be a credit. But the insinuating fragrance would prompt a bath. The day was young and already full of enough excitement. I glanced at the Contessa across the street as she smoothed her sweater and brushed a lock of hair from her brow. A few feathers of an unfortunate crow, no doubt picking at the animal’s decay hours before, swirled like spirits above her head—a warning to those who dared to pass.

Many creatures lost their lives in the streets. Mindless traffic had no conscience. It only stopped for those who were bold enough to avoid eye contact. Eye to eye was as good as a dare: no need to stop for a pedestrian who sees the threat. Like a show of teeth to an angry dog, to a Roman it meant challenge. Only those who wandered aimlessly into the street were given yield. It was a tactic I perfected, and it served the safety of my Contessa well.

Without her, life would be intolerable.

The dog next door was sent to live with a young family after the loss of his mistress. Not long after, I ran across him in the park. The poor animal had been thrust into a litter of children who favored dressing him up like a doll. They pushed him about the city in a pram. The crushing embarrassment prompted a nervous condition. Incontinent at the slightest indication of excitement, the dog was relegated to a small room used for hanging wet laundry and collecting soiled clothes. I quaked at the thought and began to conjure a disturbing picture:

A lonely existence without the care of my Contessa; passed on by the preoccupied Count to an unknown relative or impoverished friend. Sharing a bed with a child not yet house trained, blamed for the error, relegated to the laundry, or worse, forever banished from the privilege conferred by wealth and status—thrust nose-long into the obscurity of a common dog.

Without question, a humiliating nervous condition would follow.

My head spun and my mouth watered as if I might be sick. I looked about for a small patch of grass to soothe my stomach, but the cobblestones grew thick and tight at my feet. A good shake of my fur and the vile image was gone.

I tried to slip the weighty thoughts to the back of my mind, making making room for details. It was time for action. But action demanded direction. Until I understood the Count’s transgressions, I was a dog without a compass. I raced across a break in the traffic to the safety of my Contessa’s side. With head raised, I drew my ears back, ready to receive a gentle pat or soothing word. The woman breezed by me without a sound. No matter. By now she was within the relative safety of a wide piazza.

There was nothing like a well-traveled square. I relaxed straight into canine nature: tail bristled and ears aware. To a creature of able nose and idle time, the allure of the gutter was undeniable, even under the pressing influence of the park. Instincts demanded a pause over the marvelous filth of the Roman streets.

With one eye on the Contessa, I hesitated over the squashed remnant of a roasted chestnut on the curb. Few things were held in higher estimation than the simple marrone. Sweet, rich, earthy: perfection straight from the hand of God. Stone cold, its odor still vivid, it must have slipped from a full paper cone the evening before. I excavated its soft flesh from a piece of charred shell and used my tongue to wipe the excess from my whiskers with a damp paw. The streets were ripe with all things fit for a dog.

Nights were always hectic in the city, piazze snug with young people even on an icy winter evening. One could bank on the mornings. Each day revealed a clean deck of odors. Puddles of sweet wine and yeasty beer, the bitter end of a spent cigarette, rancid gum, pebbly bits of focaccia, smoky marks of both dog and gypsy along the way; all mingled to produce a hearty stench that coated the fine hairs below my nose. To a dog, the brew defined Rome as The Eternal City: ubiquitous in all its glory.

Then, a familiar odor reset the dream.

Roses.

Suspended in the mist just above my head, it disturbed the cool air and the clarity of my thoughts. It buoyed my flagging spirit and begged me to follow. Across a crowded lane, I turned the corner into a tiny piazzetta. A gurgling fountain stood in the center. At its foot stood a perfect figure, like a holy vision in the haze: serenity amid chaos, empress of the square.

I froze.

She was a stunning bitch. All legs and tail, her dark fur fluttered in the breeze of scooters darting close by.

The scent of roses was not commonly found on a dog. This had to be the Count’s accomplice. I searched the area around her for a woman likely to catch the eye of Il Conte, but the dog was alone. I hovered over her delicious scent. It warmed my lungs as the odor of a fresh, meaty shank warms the heart. But it was a bone still in the butcher’s hand.

Union between the very tall and the very short quadruped simply wasn’t plausible without the correct assignment of the sexes. Besides, sharing the same object of desire with the Count was tawdry. She was a mere degree of separation from the real mischief.

Still, one could dream. I rearranged the yearning into a more satisfying fantasy. A good length of leg on a female always always caught my eye, but it was a cruel preference. Dog endures beating, famine, the desolation of homelessness. But our greatest pain is suffered in the unrequited yearning of impossible sexual conquest. God’s joke on dogs dooms him to the limited selection of breeds of likewise fate. Facts often defeat dreams. That was the cold, hopeless reality. I shook off the trance.

The female had evaporated with the reverie. There was no evidence of the bitch. Only her perfume remained, faint now as it mingled with the vapors of passing cars and the aroma of warm cappuccini from a bar behind me. The curious blend curled into the safety of a mounting haze.

I scampered toward the piazza. I strained to catch a glimpse of the Contessa’s elegant suede shoes through the crowd, going to ground for the woody scent of fine leather left on the stones. Nothing. Racing to the next corner, I examined the via stretched out before me. Twin churches stood a centuries-old vigil where two streets spilled from the bustling Piazza del Popolo, ancient gateway to Rome. Traffic flowed in a rush of noise and air. I ran, whiskers down, toward the headwaters.

Arrival into the square found the broad morning palette awash in dewy white. Fog had moved in quickly. It clung to my ears like cotton to a burr. Pedestrians crossed the piazza, visible only from the waist down, marching like fingers across a table. Bicycles squeaked about me in alarming proximity but I stood my cobbled ground, dropping my snout to the frigid stones. My nose was as reliable as radar, but it soon was seized by the cold. I stopped to gain a bearing. It was I who was lost. Not she. The advantage of long limbs stood punctuated once again.

Ahead, from somewhere above the haze, a strange dog barked. The message was muted in the fog, like a voice through a thick scarf, but it offered a mark. The staccato rise at its end yielded a meaning: a woman down, in the piazza.

Panic rose in my chest. I turned to the direction of the call and spit a bark into the ether, the first thing to cross my mind: a description of the Contessa’s shoes. Puddle-brown chamois; a sensible heel, wide enough to bridge the cobblestones, yet an ideal height to accent the appealing curve of her perfect calf.

No reply. I was panting. Visions of wild costumes and a child’s pram swirled with phantom laughter in my head. Only the whine of a dueling siren from the end of the via del Corso overcame the lonesome song of the winter birds in the park beyond.

Though I was lost in a sea of people, I felt alone. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1) "One advantage of marriage, it seems to me, is that when you fall out of love with him, or he falls out of love with you, it keeps you together until you maybe fall in again." —Judith Viorst, "What Is This Thing Called Love?" (Redbook, Feb. '75). What's your opinion of that? Are there really up's and down's in true love? How does it apply to the characters in JACK OF HEARTS? Does this ring true in your own life?

2) Do you think Raoul's La Filosofia dei Cani Nobili (page 239) applies to man, as well? If not, should it? In what ways?

3) Grazia say's "Signora, sesso does not define love,” Grazia continued, “but commemorates it. If there is love, sex reminds us...It cleans a lens clouded by the grit of every day: dirty socks on the floor, broken doors that go unfixed, anniversaries unnoticed. In that clarity we see again what we love. If love is absent, only emptiness reflects." Do you agree? How important IS sex in a marriage?

4) Do you believe that, as Gandhi said, you must become the change you wish to see? What is the most important way in which you might apply this to your own life?

5)) If you were the Contessa, how would you respond to the Count's infidelity? To his attempted advances in chapter one?

6) What factors do you think drove Greta to walk into the rush of Roman traffic?

7) What's missing from the Count's life? What's missing from the Contessa's life? What's missing from Shimoni's life?

8) Shimoni says that, in the end, nobility is "a title earned not by out shining another, but in simply out shining oneself." Do you agree? Can you provide an example of this in your life or another's?

Weblinks

»	Author Robin F. Gainey's web site

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