This is a difficult book to assess, mainly because it doesn't present an accessible plot to hinge judgement on. Rather the tension is in the language itself, between description, events, expectations and musings. There is a kind of enchant and wonder in the narrative, and its discord with the narrative biography sits in an unnameable place. In that sense, Lee is pushing more towards an aesthetic statement than about a "story". Rather the attempt to integrate the common in its particularity with the human sense of loss is the "story". To some degree these musings are framed by very modernist leanings (such as quotes from Kandinsky about the "actuals" of spiritual manifestation in art and nature) but the overall experience is one of postmodern fragmentation. I am torn between liking the approach and feeling as though it is a cop out. Whitespace is one way to imply depth when the author can be lazy about not providing the reader any. Lee asks us to work harder than we would with a conventional story, but the work she has us do feels very unfocused. I am not sure where I am going. The subject matter may be problematic here, because the incongruity of the pieces she works with by themselves do not lend itself to a nameable coherency so the overall push is to explore the depth in experience that is yet unnamed and to some degree pretty original. This is okay, but at times I am not sure if Lee knows where she is going either, and it is that lack of trust on my part that makes reading this all the more problematic for me. 
 Overall its a very ambitious book. A very personal endeavor, one that would talk of a very basic awareness that unifies us, one that is found even in dogs. It does feel to me more like a transitional work than one that has sure footing though. But whether that is the case or not, is one for prosperity to decide, not for me.