Garrulous dogs, unlikely coincidences, unnecessary ghosts, irrelevant imitations of authors ranging from Homer to Milne—Mr. Adams bestrews his pages lavishly and shamelessly with all these literary sins but never commits the unforgivable sin of losing the reader's interest. His novels sweep along like a demented river, and [The Plague Dogs] is no exception. It is also, in its attack on useless, brutal experiments with animals, much tougher and much more pertinent to modern life than anything he has previously published, and quite unexpectedly funnier, for the same sedulous apery that produces those damned Homeric similes makes Mr. Adams a deadly parodist of cheap journalese, parliamentary rhetoric, and evasive official mush-mouthery. The story offers frequent excuse for such amusements since it concerns two battered dogs who escape, with widespread resultant uproar, from Animal Research, Surgical and Experimental, known familiarly and maliciously as A.R.S.E.

Phoebe-Lou Adams...