Social Animals

by Camille Perri

Genres: General Fiction; Animals; Women's Fiction; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

Three women. One dog park. Things are about to get messy.

Val Caruso, Alex Reed, and June Kennerson come from completely different worlds—Val is a tough-talking private investigator; Alex is reticent, nervous and on the run from her past; and June is an athlete turned housewife whose true love is her pup.

When Val is hired by June’s husband to find out if June is cheating on him, it sets these three women on a collision course. Amid a colorful cast of characters who spend time at the shabby but beloved Hamilton Dog Park, they find they have more in common than they thought. Soon June is brave enough to aim for what she wants, Alex finds excitement she never expected, and Val is reluctantly opening her heart to the most high-maintenance dog she’s ever met. But when their secrets catch up with them, will their newfound friendships be able to withstand the pressure? Or will they find themselves in the doghouse?  

Social Animals is a funny and sharp social commentary on community, privilege, dog ownership, and the ultimate power of finding your people (and your pets).

Release date: June 9, 2026

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 320

Sample

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Chapter 1

The little beast glared at Val from the doggy car seat, ears back, round eyes intent on expressing her profound displeasure.

"I'm sorry I didn't let you eat my earbuds," Val said as she pulled out of her assigned parking spot at the apartment complex. "But you need to let go of all that unhealthy anger."

In response, Cash emitted a low, discontented growl that over the past forty-eight hours Val had come to know well.

"It's a beautiful day!" Val said, though five thirty p.m. was technically evening. "There's not a cloud in the sky. You're about to make a bunch of new friends."

Cash snorted to indicate that she knew Val was full of shit and turned her head in protest.

"I know, friends are overrated." Val continued onto the road that led to Hamilton Dog Park. "But sometimes you have to fake it."

Last week at this time, before accepting this job, Val had been secure in her identity as a person who would no sooner talk to an animal than to a kitchen appliance. In fact, in the case of a missing container of leftovers, say, she would have been far more likely to speak to her refrigerator-something reasonably rhetorical, like "Did I already eat those mozzarella sticks and forget?"

Now look at her. Having entire conversations with this speechless creature. Clothes covered in hair. A plastic poop bag in one pocket. In the other, a damp, half-chewed stick processed from God-only-knows which body parts of what. She probably stank like dog, but who could say for sure? You can't smell yourself, and she had no one in her life close enough to tell her.

The absurdity of chauffeuring around this self-important little animal, propped up like a diminutive princess or a tiny, furry Miss America, in the back of her beat-up Nova, was not lost on Val. She still found it hard to believe car seats for dogs existed, but they were a "small-dog safety necessity," according to the lady at PetSmart, who also managed to upsell Val on the booster model that would give Cash a better "out-the-window view."

A 1970s muscle car was never intended to cater to such refinement, which made the contraption a challenge to install. As she MacGyvered it to the Nova's bench-seat lap belts, Val tried to remember if she'd had a safety seat as a baby.

Yeah, right. She would have been rolling around on the back floormats with her father's every haywire turn, or else clinging to her mother's lap for dear life up front, getting ashed on.

But only the best for this precious cargo. Along with the booster seat, Val was the baffled new owner of a doggy harness, because a regular collar would apparently be "too hard on the neck," as well as a doggy travel water bottle for proper hydration on the go, and-most mind-blowing-a doggy dental hygiene kit. When did people start brushing dogs' teeth? And what was next? Professional whitening? Incisor veneers? Was Val supposed to lay out a few grand to get Cash braces before sending her off to middle school?

This job had started out with so much promise. The man on the other end of the phone was courteous. His voice was direct, but unaggressive, when he said, "Hello, may I please speak to Valerie Caruso?" Phone etiquette was a huge tell.

She asked her standard question: "How'd you hear about me?"

"You did work for a friend of mine last summer," he said. "Out on the east end of Long Island."

Cha-ching. That Long Island job had been a goldmine.

And so, Val agreed to meet the polite and probably wealthy man at the waiting area of Penn Station, where he'd be arriving on the Acela from DC. His name was Silas Kennerson and he told her to meet him at the Blue Bottle Coffee kiosk, which spoke volumes to Val considering the Starbucks just across the hall. With its minimalist aesthetic and meticulous brewing methods, Blue Bottle was a luxury brand for those seeking a premium experience over convenience and common sense.

Reputation-conscious much? Val thought as she cased the surroundings, watching Silas from afar. She already knew what he looked like, thanks to the internet, but now she could get a real sense of him. He was about five foot nine, medium build, suit and tie, more handsome than the average man, with a sweet, wholesome face that could be dangerously charming. He was in his mid-forties and was well-groomed, but with floppy hair that made him seem younger, like a mischievous schoolboy. Val disliked him immediately.

Beyond the fact that she always viewed attractive people with suspicion, Val also noted that even though Silas didn't make a purchase at Blue Bottle, he claimed one of the few customer chairs for himself. He also removed his black laptop bag from across his chest and placed it on the chair beside his. Meanwhile, two poor schlubs who had just paid out the wazoo for espresso drinks and pain au chocolat were struggling to sip and eat while standing. Clearly the man was selfish, self-absorbed, and lacked a conscience.

Val made her approach, set and ready to take this jerk for all he was worth.

He stood when he saw her coming and shook her hand, palming her a hundred-dollar bill. "For your discretion," he said.

It was a solid start if Val had ever seen one.

Silas reclaimed his bag so Val could sit beside him, also coffee-less.

This close up, Val was struck by Silas's baby blue eyes, but to her nose he smelled more sadistic than most of her clients. This gave her hope that-for once-she would be tasked with something less humdrum than digging up dirt on a jealous husband's wife.

Silas got right to the point: He wanted to hire Val to spy on his wife.

Ho-hum, humdrum it would be-finding evidence of an affair-but at least this guy had resources and was joyously quick to throw money at a problem. He would double her usual rate for the inconvenience of having to relocate to Bethesda, Maryland, and offered to pay for her lodging before she even had the chance to feign hesitation.

Val let her gaze wander to the bearded, cap-wearing barista, who was carefully pouring hot water over coffee grounds in a filter. It was a precise and deliberate process that allowed her to calm her elation over this sudden great fortune.

"And you're going to need a dog," Silas said.

Wait. What? The dollar signs fell from Val's eyes. The dog park was apparently where Silas's suspicions were rooted, and he would not be convinced that she could capture all the nitty-gritty from afar. She had to get up close. And the only way was with a dog.

"Nope," Val said. "Sorry. That's a deal-breaker. Dogs are not my thing."

It had not been a negotiating tactic when she tried to get up and walk away, and yet even this turned to Val's favor.

"Give me a number," Silas said. Such extravagant, reckless, self-destructive words to utter to someone with Val's skill set. "What would make it worth your while?"

Val wondered now, as she parked her old beater alongside shiny Mercedes and Lexus SUVs, each one more massive than the next, if she should have held out for a luxury car stipend. Perhaps she would call Silas tonight and ask.

"Okay. You ready?" Val locked eyes with the ten-pound fur monster in her temporary care, this bossy, mini-tyrant called a Brussels Griffon. What a stupid, stuck-up-sounding name for a breed of dog. She had to practice saying it aloud all morning to stop cringing.

At the animal shelter, Val had initially heard it wrong. After perusing the sorriest array of neglected strays and street dogs, she had just about settled on a mild-mannered Muppet-type mix when someone cried out, "Is that a grift?"

Val's inner grifter startled at the accusation. Had the twentysomething volunteer working the counter seen right through to the empty black hole at her core?

Then Val noticed the other twentysomething volunteer, who had come from the back. In her arms, she held what appeared to be a baby monkey wrapped in a blanket, or maybe a swaddled ET plucked from Elliott's bicycle basket. While the two adult women goo goo-ed and gaga-ed over the thing, Val realized it was "Griff" they were saying.

"As in Brussels Griffon," the first volunteer said when Val asked for clarification. "We rarely get these in here. I've never even seen a smooth-coated red Griff in real life before."

"Only two years old and a purebred, too," the other volunteer offered.

They went on this way long enough for Val to pull out her phone and search the important-sounding keywords spilling from their mouths. She mangled some of the spelling, but the numbers came up nonetheless, confirming her suspicion: the average resale value of this little bundle of joy was upward of three thousand dollars.

The adoption fee was $150, and only a suggestion, so Val paid $75.

It was beyond a good bargain-it was a steal.

A steal, Val reminded herself at dawn the next morning, with the dog standing on her stomach, barking directly into her face. The quickest three grand I'll ever make.

Since then, she had come to better understand why a person might be driven to give away such a high-value animal.

Val's first full day serving as Cash's custodian came with unexpected challenges. Being followed to the bathroom, for example, was a new experience-made worse by Cash's disturbingly humanlike eyes. Val flushed and washed her hands, then searched the internet to see if toilet-ogling was normal or if it were possible for a dog to be a pervert.

What she discovered online was bone-chilling.

Griffs are not like other dogs. They are affectionately known as Velcro dogs because they attach themselves to a person and need to be with them 24/7.

This was from the American Brussels Griffon Rescue Alliance, an organization that appeared to really know their shit.

It only got worse from there.

They want to sleep in bed with you. If you are standing at the sink, you may find your Griff sitting on your feet. When you sit down, your Griff will be in your lap. Can you handle that as part of your lifestyle?

Who could handle that as part of their lifestyle? Val wondered. What kind of person could have anything stuck to them twenty-four hours a day and not flick it away like the pest it was? Did Griff owners have no appreciation of independence? Did they dislike freedom? What had Val gotten herself into?

Later that night, as Cash whimpered and cried and barked I hate you! from inside her crate across the bedroom, Val knew she had no one to blame but herself. She had conducted her breed research too late.

It wasn't Cash's fault that she was wired to be anxious, excitable, and annoying as hell. Genetics were a cruel lottery that couldn't be rigged, and if that weren't enough, the environment she was raised in had not done her any favors. There was no telling what Cash had endured before being abandoned. Who understood this lethal combination better than Val?

As her state-sanctioned social worker once said, Nature loads the gun, but nurture pulls the trigger, which Val's adolescent mind rightly took to mean There's no hope for you, kid.

Val tried to remember this while silently counting backward from one hundred to keep from wringing Cash's howling neck.

This is an intelligent breed, but sensitive, the Rescue Alliance website had said. The Griffon will not respond to rough handling, hitting, or excessive shouting. They will, however, respond well to guidance given with kindness, consistency, and love.

Eventually Val lost her nerve, releasing Cash from the crate and placing her onto the cloud-soft, circular pillow bed the PetSmart lady called a "Poof."

"Happy now?" Val failed at her attempt to sound calm and collected. "From here I can watch you sleep, and you can watch me sleep, quietly."

Cash clenched her little jaw around the Poof's downy fuzz and thrashed it about like enemy vermin. She wanted in on Val's bed, which she communicated by growling and standing up on two legs with her front nails gripping the top of Val's mattress.

"Absolutely not." Val considered having a dog in one's bed to be in the red zone of the grossness scale, but Cash persisted, hopping up and down, begging, pleading.

It went on this way long enough to become mind-bending, especially because Val was certain Cash could have made the jump onto the bed with minimal effort if she tried.

"You're being ridiculous," Val said when the clock on her nightstand flipped to three a.m. "You don't need my help."

The repetition had become relentless. Over and over, Cash would back up, false-start, false-start, lose her nerve, whimper, growl, begin again.

"You can do it!" Val shouted, against her better judgment and contrary to her own desired outcome. "I've seen you jump twice as high!"

Exhausted and worn down by the need to be proven correct, she said, "If you figure it out on your own, I'll let you stay up here."

It was only the next morning, after waking up with Cash curled like a baby fox in the bend of her knees, that Val recognized how marvelously she had been conned.

In fact, if Val learned anything from those first forty-eight hours with Cash, it was that she had underestimated the role of manipulation in the dog-to-human social contract. But this was a challenge she was determined to see through. The amount of money Val could make on this Silas Kennerson job might be enough to take the rest of the year off, travel a bit, go someplace warm for the winter, see another country, or even another continent. Val had been next to nowhere beyond a handful of US states-she just didn't have the means, but she did have the vision. And she was not about to give anything up on account of one badly behaved dog, whether that dog was an evil genius or not.

"Ready?" Val stepped out of the Nova, careful not to nick the door of the BMW X5 she'd parked beside.

Cash was up and alert in her car seat, recognizing they'd arrived someplace significantly grotesque by the faint odor in the air.

Leash clipped to harness, Val set the dog onto the pavement and steered her across the parking lot toward the double-gated entryway to the park.

One whiff of the assembly beyond the gates and Cash charged ahead, pulling Val along with the strength of a miniature bull.