A Really Baaaaad Idea

We’ve had cat detectives. We’ve had dog detectives. Now, it seems we are going to have to put up with sleuthing sheep. Are no creatures in the animal kingdom safe from wordsmiths trying to anthropomorphize them as gumshoes? I somehow missed spotting last year’s publication in Britain of Three Bags Full, by Leonie Swann. However, I saw it yesterday, promoted as a June release in Doubleday’s summer 2007 catalogue. Here’s the write-up:

On a hillside near the cozy Irish village of Glennkill, a flock of sheep gathers around their shepherd, George, whose body lies pinned to the ground with a spade. George has cared for the flock, reading them a number of books every night. The daily exposure to literature has made them far savvier about the workings of the human mind than your average sheep. Led by Miss Maple, the smartest sheep in Glennkill (and possibly the world), they set out to find George’s killer.

Now, I’m sure that author Swann, who’s apparently living in Berlin and working on her doctorate in English literature, is a splendid person. And her book must have been saleable enough to win a U.S. printing, after appearing first in the UK. But did she really need to inflict investigative responsibilities onto these fluffy ruminant quadrupeds? And would sheep make the best detectives, anyway? I mean, aren’t they the most susceptible mammals on Earth to having the wool pulled over their eyes?

Not to be too cruel about this idea, but it seems to me that such exercises in fantasy, while they might represent ripe opportunities for “punny” humor, also serve to reduce the reputation of crime and mystery fiction. Do we really want the average Joe thinking that cute animal whodunits represent this genre’s intellectual height, anymore than we want readers to believe that crime fiction is all about burnt-out, middle-aged, alcoholic peepers with wisecracks as their first line of defense?

I accept that it would be creative censorship to ask writers not to make a mockery of this genre; that they refrain from writing about critters as crime-solvers, or basing their stories in the realms of hair-styling or gardening or crocheting or vampirism. I know there are many readers who like those sorts of yarns--some of whom will no doubt send me nasty notes about what I’m saying here. And I’m sure that somebody else will call me a hypocrite, since I just denounced literary snobbery as it relates to preserving Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s old home, and am now voicing what could be construed as an exclusivist opinion. But I still think that sheep have no right to be nosing their way into murder probes. I mean, ewe. Or, rather, ew.