Susan Richards's childhood was both privileged and wretched. Her mother died from cancer when she was five and she and her brother were shipped to a succession of cold, well-heeled relatives. One grandmother's gift of a pony seemed a tacit exchange for denying the child permission to grieve for or mention her mother.

As an adult, Richards numbed a bad marriage with an alcohol chaser. By her mid-30s she was sober and single, and spent a quiet decade putting herself back together with a farm and a beloved trio of horses. Life was even-keeled, if a bit lonely. When she asked a friend why men didn't approach, the friend replied, "Because they see a big wall with a sign that reads, KEEP OUT."

Then one rainy March day, she responded to a call by the SPCA to foster an abused ex-racehorse and her foal. It was, Richards writes, an out-of-character action. "If I had stopped to think, I would have done what I usually did when I heard a plea for help for animals who were sick or suffering from the hands of humans: I might have done nothing, or I might have sent a check." But she showed up instead, and so it was that a bony Standardbred mare and foal stepped onto her trailer and put in motion a series of events that would profoundly affect her life.

The mare was named Lay Me Down, and despite a lifetime of abuse and exploitation, was sweet-tempered and affectionate. Richards's loving care worked, and the horse was soon "sleek and brown as a Hershey bar." Things started looking up in other ways as well—there was interest from a man, and a series of dates.

But only a few months after adoption, a knowledgeable friend noticed something strange about one of the mare's eyes. A vet confirmed the worst diagnosis—an inoperable brain tumor. Richards bought the mare homeopathic medicines, made her treats, consulted with the finest equine vets. But nothing—not money, love, nor justice—could save the horse. It was a situation that felt wrackingly familiar.

This is a moving, heartfelt memoir, but it is absolutely not sentimental. The writer's voice is responsible, sharp as the crack of a long-lashed buggy whip. Chosen by a Horse reads like a sad movie that's been wittily captioned for the misery impaired. Richards's acerbic eye spares no one, from the supposedly sugar-loathing date who gobbles her desserts, to herself, as she shops for a bra in a store loaded with hot pink push-ups: "I wasn't sure of my size. Smallish. The kind of shape that in the past had made men say, 'I prefer flat women.' Sure they did—the way I preferred men with no teeth."

Though horse lovers will find special appeal, this is not strictly a horse-centric tale. It's a story for anyone who has ever loved fiercely and lost, thought that pain had damaged them beyond fixing, or wondered if facing death also means facing life.

It's also struck a nerve with the public. Even before official publication, Chosen by a Horse has already gone into reprints, had paperback rights picked up by Houghton Mifflin, and attracted a cadre of Big Hollywood Types to woo film options. It's all deserved; this book really is that good.

Susan Richards is a resident of Olivebridge, and teaches writing at SUNY Ulster and Marist College. She will read from and sign her book at Oblong Books and Music in Rhinebeck on June 10, at 7:30pm, and at regional Barnes &Noble stores on these dates: in Kingston, on June 6, at 7pm; in Newburgh, on June 7, at 7 pm; and in Poughkeepsie on June 8, at 7pm.

In the opening chapter of The Rabbit Factory, we are treated to the grisly murder of a truly loathsome individual dressed as a giant rabbit. Pedophile Eddie Elkins may be one of the least sympathetic victims in mystery history. When he meets his demise, we sigh with relief.

It's just the first emotional loop-the-loop on a twisting, turning rollercoaster. Through the eyes of veteran detective Mike Lomax, we are taken backstage at Familyland, a megabucks enterprise devoted to Good Clean Fun—at least, that's the cover story.

Opening a book, a thriller no less, that's over 600 pages long, a reader can't help but feel "this had better be good." By chapter two, as we get to know Lomax a little, finding a cop with a quick, warm wit and a totally believable sensitive streak, any doubts begin to fade. We're on this rollercoaster to stay.

The nastiness of victim number one turns out to be coincidental, the first of a series of red herrings, and Lomax rapidly realizes that the target of the mayhem is not one individual but the institution of Familyland itself, surely undeserving and above reproach. Or is it? This question puts Lomax and his wise-mouthed partner Terry Biggs at odds with Familyland public relations folk who dread scandal—and with police brass who are more responsive to deep pockets and political pull than they should be—as they attempt to prevent further mayhem and figure out what's really going on.

Lomax is recently widowed and still reeling with grief. His deceased wife Joanie and the Annoying Little Voice in his head inhabit his inner world, helping and hindering as he goes along, giving the lie to the stereotype of the unimaginative, authoritarian cop. He's tough and smart and falls halfway in love every time the opportunity presents itself, and is far too wise to divide the world into Good Guys and Scumbags, never the twain shall meet. Biggs, too, is a sharply drawn blend of guts and sweetness.

Karp doles out the revelations a few at a time, keeping us just a bit ahead of his heroes, or letting us believe that we're ahead and then taking the plot through yet another fast curve. Lots of people, it turns out, have had their issues with Familyland. Twenty-first-century California and what passes for its culture provides a rich backdrop for a crime spree that sets a variety of conflicts in motion, until the reader is watching one of those awe-inspiring juggling acts where six dinner plates are spinning atop poles amid flying sparklers while the juggler plays a kazoo.

One suspect, the son of an artist who got rooked by Familyland's founder, resides in Woodstock, New York, providing Lomax with a reason for a trip to a satisfyingly recognizable Ulster County. It's this scene that includes my only (admittedly tiny) gripe with the book: I have never seen an Ulster County sheriff's car with "a big red 'Sheriff'" emblazoned on the doors. But, hey, maybe they keep that one for special occasions.

Bodies pile up at the hands of unlikely assassins, leads turn out to lead nowhere (although they make for intriguing side trips). Karp can draw everything from an outdoor soup kitchen to a corporate boardroom vividly enough to make us feel like insiders, all the while keeping it lean and tight and hilarious. There are sly insights about right and wrong, life and death, and legacy—but not at the expense of chills, thrills, and belly laughs.

Don't look for Disney to make this into a movie—the concept of a regimented fantasy world founded by a crazed eccentric might hit a tender spot or two. It would be nice if someone did, though: The mayhem and mirth are both visual and original, and the denouement is enormously satisfying. The Rabbit Factory rocks.

Bevies of books have featured an animal as their narrator, addressing us in what might be termed the first nonperson singular. We have heard tales told from the point of view of wolves (Jack London), whales (Edward Abbey), rabbits (Richard Adams), horses (John Hawkes), and even a saxophone-playing bear (Rafi Zabor). On the whole, though, for an adult reader, an animal narrator—reliable or otherwise—is generally a dicey proposition, a heads-up that the ensuing story will be terminally twee.

This is most assuredly not the case with Timothy; or, Notes of an Abject Reptile by Verlyn Klinkenborg, the writer who serves as an incomparable bard of the life bucolic to op-ed readers of the New York Times. Taking true characters and events from the life and letters of the Rev. Gilbert White (1720-93), Klinkenborg wickedly subverts the curate's ideas and assumptions about nature, animals, and human animals by considering them from the lowly perspective of Timothy, a tortoise in White's garden. For more than four decades, Timothy observes the naturalist, along with the interwoven communities of plants, trees, bugs, birds, beasts, and people in the village of Selborne, and, with the characteristically dry disposition of the chelonian race, offers a critique of the human-centered universe that is droll, pointed, and, finally, profound.

Having been abducted from an Edenic life in the Mediterranean, Timothy is fondly cared for by the good reverend. But the tortoise is subjected to the rigors of an alien climate, the humiliations of sundry scientific experiments, and incorrect suppositions regarding her nature. (For starters, Timothy is a she, misnamed by a certain Mr. Snooke, who thought the alliteration of "Timothy the tortoise" sounded clever.) One day, when opportunity presents itself in the form of an open wicket-gate, Timothy walks "through the holes in their attention" and escapes the garden, enjoying eight days on the lam before those of "bipedal stride" recapture her.

Much the same as her gait, Timothy's narration is deliberate. Her observations unfold in short, spare sentences, for the most part unadorned by adjectives. Hers is a stoic poetry, unclouded by prejudice or sentimentality. She bears no bitterness or ill will toward humans—in fact, she has a grudging respect for Mr. White—but she is pitiless when treating human vanity, arrogance, and pretension. Here, for instance, is Timothy on the Christian promise that the dead will be resurrected: "Is death so fearsome that it must be undone? Is this life so poor a thing? Is not eternity somewhat too long?" Or expounding on the "celestial flame" of reason: "Up on their stilts of reason these humans catch every draft, every catarrh. Incessant labor merely to feed themselves. While I neither toil nor spin."

When Timothy lowtails it through the gate left ajar, she does not do so, as White surmises, because she hopes to find a mate; after 44 years in the company of humans, she simply wishes to be rid of them and their "laborious turmoil," their "endless bother," the "roiling of  their presence"—a desire, one might add, that is also harbored by many Homo sapiens. "I wish to live again in a place that is not a map of the gardener's mind. Book of nature, as humans love to think of it. But where I wish to live is not a book at all. Not an argument for the being and attributes of an unnecessary god. Not a theorem, hypothesis, or demonstration. Merely itself."

On the Earth, under the stars, in the great, wheeling scheme of things, Timothy the tortoise knows her place. We, alas for the rest of the planet, remain willfully ignorant of ours.

Other books by Verlyn Klinkenborg include The Rural Life, The Last Fine Time, and Making Hay, all highly recommended. He keeps a keen eye on the foxes and finches in Columbia County and teaches literature at Bard College.