For my birthday this year, Mr BIP arranged for me to have a cake with a sentence from an Alice Munro story iced onto it: “The world would be grand, if it weren’t for the people.”

It’s an interesting quotation in a year when the pandemic has made everyone both grateful for and fearful of the people nearest to us. And I was happy to share a few bits of my cake with my neighbourhood critter friends. I like to imagine they’d approve of these recent reading selections.

Edith Widder’s Below the Edge of Darkness: A Memoir of Exploring Light and Life in the Deep Sea (2021) radiated on the front cover of the New York Times Book Review this summer.

There’s enough personality and description, with memorable scenes and interesting details—all relayed in a conversational style—to keep a not-so-sciencey reader like me engaged. Because the accident Widder experienced as a young adult delayed her pursuit of a career in marine biology and shifted her specific interest in the field, talk of that aligns with the narrative (and contributes an additional layer of interest for readers who enjoy medical memoirs).

For me, the most enjoyable aspect is the critter-talk (sign me up for the saber-toothed viperfish fan club—sheesh) along with accessible explanations of gadgets and tech (like spectrometers and evolving deep-dive equipment) and a dash of playfulness (describing mucus as “the duct tape of the ocean”).

There are stats: land comprises 29% of the planet’s surface. But also some deep-thinking: “We see, hear, smell, taste, and feel only what is needed. Much is hidden, but our ingenuity provides a capacity for revealing what is concealed from our immediate senses, if only we choose to see.” Anyone with a sharp interest in only one of the aspects I’ve described might view the rest as clutter, but I was interested in the whole package.

Yan Ge’s Strange Beasts of China (2021) is one of thirteen books she’s written, six novels among them. Originally from Sichuan, China, she was named one of two future literature masters in People’s Literature magazine. She’s interviewed by Sebastian Barry here (29:22), a discussion which will probably interest writers more than readers. Both writers and readers will appreciate the Melville House interview with her, in the company of her translator Jeremy Tiang. (37:37)

In all, the beasts’ stories are intended to ponder whether and how humans and beasts are different; they have that strange aspect one experiences in Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities—obviously invention, but so deliberate that it feels insulting to focus on the imaginative elements. Especially when the author is clear that she saw herself writing realism, and even debated spiritedly with one reader who saw it as magical.

Her favourite beast is the Flourishing Beast and when asked whether the novel is a love story, she says she wrote it “naively, genuinely and lovingly.”

The translator agrees that the Flourishing Beast is the heart of the book, but their favourite beast is actually the Heartsick Beast; in discussing the tone of work, they emphasize the simplicity and directness of the characters’ emotions. It’s not discussed in either interview, but isn’t it a gorgeous cover?

Natsumi Hoshino’s Plum Crazy (2008-) is an ongoing manga about cats and the people they have adopted into their cat-lives. It reminds me of Kanata Kunami’s Chi series (also for children, but with glossy pages and more stylized kitties): very little happens, mixups are resolved, disasters end quickly and happily.

You would know the author has and loves cats without these, but an added bonus are the occasional mini-chapters about her own cats and the behaviours or events that mimic/inspire story elements. They have their favourite toys, they cuddle, they jump around, they make and break agreements, they complain they’re not included in the Chinese Zodiac.

Their people are kind and well-intentioned; they worry when a new kitten stalks Plum, fiercely and relentlessly, and they try to make changes to improve challenging situations…but, of course, it’s the cats who really make all of these decisions and occasionally cast a thought to their people’s contentment. It’s sweet-natured (sometimes overly sweet, a kitten in a later volume talks in a kind of baby-talk) saga. And sometimes that’s just what I’m craving.

I waited for a copy of Darcie Little Badger’s Elatsoe (2020) for about eight months from the public library before it arrived and I realized it’s written for teens. And not the way that Cherie Dimaline’s The Marrow Thieves is written for teens, with a boil of darkness maintaining a tension throughout the story. Even though there are spirits, as well as what Ellie calls paranormal creatures, and a violent death in the family which fuels the story, there’s an underlying gentleness of sorts.

Maybe it’s the lovely illustrations by Rovina Cai (which showcase my favourite relationship in the book, between Ellie and Kirby, her dog—dog lovers will love this storyline too). And even the attempts to reconcile fundamental contradictions and truths are expressed delicately. Elatsoe, a member of the Apache tribe (inhabiting the land currently called Texas), is named in Lipan for a hummingbird.

The connection with the land and all of its inhabitants (some monstrous) is important to the story, but its success resides with readers’ connection to Ellie. “How long would it take for the earth to heal? When would the sap on the metal-scarred tree harden into amber? It seemed odd that an act so violent and cruel could leave gemstones in its wake.” A very absorbing story that made an extremely hot summer day fly past. (But I think I would have loved it more if I were a younger reader.)

In Nick McDonell’s The Council of the Animals (2021) bear claws mark tallies into tree bark, and a cat’s claw on metal acts like a gavel to pull attention away from unproductive quarrels.

Can you feel it? There’s a lot of tension between the animals in this story, including a debate over whether the insects were disregarded or opted out.

But there’s also a shared sense of superiority in the animal community, because the rocks and trees do not even hold councils.

And the community is broader than readers might expect so, for instance, crows evoke the wisdom of the dinosaurs and krakens, as well as their rich dream life.

There’s also some word play (like discussions about domestication and “demoscratchy”) and there are unexpected troubles alongside some more predictable ones.

Alliances and disputes, betrayals and extinction, philosophy and justice: there are big ideas here, but it’s also a simple story (accompanied by classic line-drawings by Steven Tabbutt) that one can enjoy in an afternoon:

“But what is a hero? Were the Pharaonic cats as wise as myth suggests? Or were they simply shrewd rat catchers? And were the first rats to circumnavigate the globe as bold as Magellan? Or were they simply hungry stowaways?”

Have you “met” any critters in your reading recently?

Do you have a favourite critter story?