I'm in agony, over here.I decided a while back that I didn't want to be one of those people whose ratings become useless by dint of being uniformly positive. I want my stars to mean something. To be taken as a true measure of my esteem.Or lack thereof.Fuck—that sounds awful. This is difficult to explain.Lemme start again.I can tell you that this book is very, very smart, and frequently funny, and much darker than you'd think; I can tell you it's sexy as hell, but also savagely poignant, and that it may make you cry; I can tell you that many, many people love it, and that the reasons I don't have nothing to do with the reasons why you might.I could say those things—because all of those things are true.But I'll say this, instead:I have never admired a book I didn't enjoy as much as I admire this one.***Read this book, and then visit with Emma—in Goodreads beast-mode—as she brilliantly dissects the genius of the puppy-play device as deployed therein.***People say Brin stole the show, but I disagree.That honor goes to Mr. Zimmerman, whose happy habit of exclaiming things like ‘Syphilitic whore!’ made me giggle like a delinquent any number of times.***Read the comments for an explanation as to why you saw this review in your feed 80 times, today.Feel free to avail yourself of the opportunity to razz me for being a ninny.I'm friends with Ayanna. I'm used to it.