My dog, Louise, also devours books. Literally. Last night we got home from our travels to find that she'd feasted on Lemony Snickett's The Bad Beginning: Orphans.
Can she read? Was she trying to tell us that she was feeling miffed because we've been gone so much lately? Honestly. Sometimes I wonder.
Whenever Louise eats a book, she deposits the remains on the carpet runner directly in front of the door so it's the first thing we see. When we come in, she doesn't jump off the couch to greet us like she usually does, but lies there, head between her paws, gazing at us with a half-guilty/half-accusing expression. Her tail thumps slowly, hopefully.
"Bad dog," we say. "Bad, bad dog."
She keeps thumping her tail and looking at us until we cave in, go over, pet her, and tell her we really didn't mean it, she's really the best dog in the whole world. Really. She is.
I have to say, her taste in books is eclectic. She's eaten everything from detective novels to very expensive art books. She's eaten a few of mine, which I think shows considerable good taste (pun intended) on her part. She's particularly fond of library books. I don't even want to know how much I've paid for wrecked books over the years. She's eaten so many that I'm embarrassed to take the remains back to my branch library. I take them to a branch where nobody knows me.
Still, I find Louise's appetite for books endearing. She is my dog, after all.