Not just a dog, a pug…More seriously, the use of a dog as the narrator and focus of the story presented a central difficulty: a dog’s knowledge of English or any human language is limited to perhaps 10-15 (?) words, which could result in rather tedious, not to mention incoherent, prose.

But: the story is actually told by Professor Dayberry, who, through a botched channeling experiment, was transported into the pug’s consciousness. While seeing this fascinating ancient world through the sensory and emotive apparatus of a canine, he was able to employ the linguistic and analytical capacities of a human in recording it.

Once this central difficulty was resolved, I found that the use of a dog as narrator offered several advantages: (1) privileged information: people talk to dogs freely and don’t much care what dogs overhear; (2) the attitudes and actions towards Tutus proved a good means of revealing character; (3) the quite different priorities of the pug and its utter indifference to most of the motives and interests that drive humans introduced a healthy objectivity and a distinct comic element into the story.

Most importantly, I believe that the novelty of this “bottom-up” view of the ancient world will exercise an irresistible pull on the reader.

I make no claim to being an historical scholar, but I did do a fair amount of reading (which included some sources probably only available at the Library of Congress) to try to get a feel for the period and the society in which the story took place. In my case, such material was an essential spark to the imagination; I am incapable of pure fantasy.

Some of the key sources are listed at the beginning of the book. I might mention that I found some of the poetry of the period, much closer to everyday life than current poetry, to be particularly helpful in providing insight.

In The Son of Heaven, the action takes place against two backdrops: the Imperial Palace of China and the Silk Road. The history of China during the period covered by the novel (and well before) is richly documented. In contrast, I was not able to find much in the way of contemporary sources on the Silk Road. Instead, I relied on much later historical accounts (e.g., Marco Polo) and, to get a physical feel for the place, travel books -- in particular, accounts by the intrepid explorers who “opened up” the Silk Road at the turn of the 19th century.

The Silk Road portion of the novel is, in any case, primarily a physical adventure with a lot yarn-spinning and philosophizing (by the pug’s traveling companions thrown it.).

I think the fundamental struggle in the author’s mind is: how much were they like us? How much, unlike? I came down on the side that my long deceased characters were much like us. In fact, I came up with a bit of theory: that the basic modern character types and moral philosophies, or approaches to life, were all pretty much in place 2,000 years ago (probably well before). And that there is fundamental similarity between “civilized” societies (or at least the upper crust of such societies) and a fundamental gap between those societies and what we might call “pre-historical” peoples.

The parallels between ancient Rome (which Tutus does not experience until Book Two: Citizen of Rome) and the Unites States of today are especially staggering.

Ultimately, I believe that any novelist’s (and probably any historian’s) account of the past, whether 50 or 2,000 years ago, is unavoidably shaped by the subtle, and perhaps largely unconscious, currents and motivations of the present-day.

There is also, of course, the ever-present threat of anachronisms and other inaccuracies –e.g., “ Li Huan heated up my meal in the microwave.” Less flippantly, I recall writing a scene in which a character was gazing out a window. I agonized: did they have windows in the houses? I couldn't find a definitive answer; I took the plunge and assumed they did.

Two very talented people collaborated on the cover: Fred Fischer, an economic analyst at the U.S. International Trade Commission and USTR; and Hugh Philipp, currently involved in “bio-physics” research (incomprehensible to mere mortals) at Cornell University, who also happens to be my son-in-law.

The pug model for the cover of both books is Chloe, our nearly 9-year-old pug. Click here to learn more.

The cover of Citizen of Rome is the handiwork of Fred Fischer with assistance from my wife, Amelia, and some help (and more hindrance) from me.

Unfortunately, I must agree: it is confusing. But a dog has no say in its naming. Thus, it was inevitable that the peripatetic Tutus would acquire several monikers during the course of her disjointed travels: her birth name Xiao Ji Long (Little Lucky Dragon); Lord Shushee, by the merchant family with whom she traveled the Silk Road; and in Book Two, others. The name Tutus Indomitus Minimus, a gift from a conniving Greek slave, does not actually appear until Book Two: Citizen of Rome.

One of the curious things about Tutus’ interactions with humans is that they paid little attention to her sex. Men (except for the eunuchs) generally called her “he”; women, “she”; quite a few couldn't get past “it.” This indifference was reflected in her naming.

As far as I know, no other pug has equaled Tutus’ mark on history. I understand that a pug once saved the life of William of Orange through his pesky barking; also, that the Empress Josephine had a pug who strongly objected to Napoleon occupying her(?) place in Josephine’s bed. Tabitha Clem of the University of California, Berkeley advises that Josephine's pug was in fact a male named Fortune, that he bit Napoleon on the hand the night of their wedding but that later when Josephine was in prison she used Fortune's collar to smuggle notes to Napoleon. Hmmm... the Romans used Tutus' necklace in much the same way

Then, of course, there is Frank (the pug in Men in Black), but he is actually an alien.

I invite readers to send in accounts of notable pugs in history (or the present day).
E-mail your accounts to me.

A virtual unknown, Gushing was born, probably around 1920, in the Pigtown section of Baltimore (so-named because of its proximity to long-closed slaughterhouses). He later moved to the working class neighborhood of Hampden, where he became a local legend. Though he never used his hated first name, Caleb, it always managed to its way into the public domain, providing reliable material for taunts.

A rather strange and very reserved man when sober, Gushing transformed into a garrulous, poem-spouting rowdy when drinking (which was as often as he could afford it.) He became a particular favorite, a sort of mascot, of the local firemen, who generally found him at the bar when they stopped in after the night shift, always accompanied by an old Basset Hound, who would sit mournfully at his feet, occasionally lapping up a bowl of beer.

As far as I know, his poetry has never been published. I tore the poem that appears on the home page, and at the outset of Part I of the novel, from a crumpled mass of yellowed mimeographed pages pinned to the wall of a Hampden beer joint many, many years ago.

He disappeared from the neighborhood in the sixties, must be presumed dead.