Charles Portis is a ghost. Well, he passed away in 2020, but even when he was alive, he was a bit of a phantom in the literary world. Most people know him for True Grit. They think of John Wayne or Jeff Bridges in an eye patch. But if you talk to writers—I mean the kind of people who actually obsess over sentence structure and comedic timing—they aren’t talking about Mattie Ross. They’re talking about Ray Mitty. They’re talking about Dog of the South.
It’s a weird book.
Honestly, trying to explain the plot of Dog of the South to someone who hasn't read it is an exercise in futility. You end up sounding like a crazy person. You have to say things like, "Well, there’s this guy named Ray, and his wife runs off with his co-worker, but Ray is mostly upset because the co-worker took his Ford Torino."
That’s the hook. Ray Mitty, a man of endless, misplaced determination and bizarrely specific knowledge, drives from Arkansas to British Honduras (now Belize) to get his car back. And maybe his wife, too. But mostly the car. It’s a road trip novel that feels less like On the Road and more like a fever dream curated by a guy who spends too much time reading technical manuals and junk mail.
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The Genius of Ray Mitty’s Voice
Voice is everything in a novel like this. If you don't buy into Ray, the whole thing falls apart. Ray isn't a hero. He isn't even particularly likable in a traditional sense. He’s pedantic. He’s stubborn. He has a way of describing the world that is so literal it becomes surreal.
Portis had this incredible gift for capturing the American "know-it-all." You know the type. The guy at the hardware store who has a twenty-minute opinion on the wrong kind of washer you’re buying. Ray Mitty is the patron saint of those guys. When he’s traveling through Mexico and Central America, he isn't marveling at the majesty of the ruins or the depth of the culture. He’s worrying about the grade of the gasoline or the specific bureaucratic hurdles of a border crossing.
It’s funny because it’s true. It’s that hyper-fixation on the mundane while your life is actually falling apart that makes Dog of the South feel so human. We’ve all been there, right? Your world is ending, but you’re really annoyed that the vending machine is out of Cool Ranch Doritos.
Dr. Reuel Reedy and the Art of the Grift
You can't talk about this book without talking about Dr. Reuel Reedy. He is, without a doubt, one of the greatest comedic creations in 20th-century literature. Ray picks him up along the way, and the book just explodes into a new level of absurdity.
Reedy is a disgraced doctor. A scam artist. A man who thinks he’s much smarter than he is, which makes him the perfect foil for Ray. They spend a huge chunk of the book stuck together in a broken-down vehicle, arguing about nonsense.
"I was not looking for a head-shrinker. I was looking for a man who could tell me something about the timing on a 351-Cleveland engine."
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That’s the vibe. Two men, completely out of their depth, clinging to their dignity through sheer force of personality. Portis doesn't use jokes. There are no "setups" and "punchlines" in the way you’d see in a sitcom. The humor comes from the friction between these characters and the world that refuses to accommodate their delusions.
Why the Cult Following is So Intense
Why do people like Bill Hader, Conan O’Brien, and Donna Tartt obsess over this book? It’s because Dog of the South doesn't try to be anything other than what it is. It’s not trying to teach you a grand moral lesson about the human condition. It’s not trying to be a "Great American Novel" with a capital G.
It just is.
It’s a masterclass in deadpan. In a world of "content" that feels over-polished and desperate for your attention, Portis’s writing feels like a secret handshake. It’s dry. It’s dusty. It smells like old upholstery and cheap cigars.
There’s also the matter of the prose itself. Portis writes sentences that are so perfectly balanced you could weigh gold on them. He can describe a miserable hotel room or a flat tire with more wit than most writers can bring to a tragic death scene.
What People Miss About Portis
A lot of folks categorize Portis as a "Southern Writer." I think that’s a bit of a trap. Sure, he’s from Arkansas. Yes, the cadence of the speech is Southern. But Dog of the South isn't about the "South" in that dusty, gothic, Faulknerian way. It’s about the modern South—the South of strip malls, eccentric entrepreneurs, and long stretches of highway.
It’s a book about the restlessness of the American spirit. The idea that if you just drive far enough, you can solve your problems, or at least find a better place to have them.
The Logistics of the Journey
Let’s get into the weeds for a second because Ray Mitty certainly would. The trip from Little Rock to Belize in a Ford Torino is no joke, especially in the 1970s. Ray’s obsession with the "Dog of the South"—which is actually the name of a beat-up bus—symbolizes the mechanical failures that haunt the entire narrative.
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Everything is breaking. The cars, the marriages, the schemes.
Ray’s journey is a comedy of errors, but it’s grounded in a very real sense of place. Portis travelled these routes himself. He knew what the air felt like in San Ignacio. He knew the specific frustration of dealing with a radiator that refuses to stay cool in the jungle heat. This factual grounding makes the absurdity pop. If the world weren't so real, the characters wouldn't be so funny.
Why You Should Read It Right Now
If you feel like everything is a bit too "much" lately, you need this book. It’s the ultimate palate cleanser. It’s a reminder that life is mostly a series of minor inconveniences interrupted by the occasional major disaster, and the only way through it is a stubborn, almost heroic commitment to your own nonsense.
You won't find many books that handle failure with this much grace. Ray loses his wife, his car, and his dignity, yet he keeps moving forward. He’s the most optimistic pessimist you’ll ever meet.
The Portis Revival
There’s been a bit of a Portis renaissance in the last decade. Overlook Press did a great job of bringing his books back into the light, and since his death, more people are finally realizing that True Grit was just the tip of the iceberg.
But Dog of the South remains the favorite for the true believers. It’s the one we gift to people when we want to see if we can really be friends. If you don't find Ray Mitty funny, we might have a problem.
Actionable Steps for the Aspiring Portis Fan
If you're ready to dive into the world of Ray Mitty and the wandering eccentrics of the American South, here is how to get the most out of the experience:
- Track down a physical copy. There’s something about the weight of a paperback that suits Portis better than an e-reader. You want a book that looks like it’s been left on a dashboard in the sun.
- Don't rush it. The joy is in the dialogue. Read the conversations out loud. Notice how Portis uses "well" and "anyhow" to pace a scene. It’s a lesson in how people actually talk when they’re trying to sound important.
- Look up the geography. Following Ray’s route on a map of Central America adds a layer of appreciation for just how insane his "rescue mission" actually was.
- Check out "Masters of Atlantis" next. Once you finish Dog of the South, you’re going to want more. Masters of Atlantis is Portis’s take on secret societies, and it’s arguably even weirder.
- Watch the interviews (if you can find them). Portis rarely gave them, but the few pieces of journalism he wrote for the New York Herald Tribune show the DNA of his fiction—sharp, observational, and completely devoid of fluff.
Stop overthinking your reading list. Pick up the book. Read about the man who just wanted his Ford Torino back. You'll thank me when you're laughing at a description of a soggy sandwich three chapters in.