Meow meow! Stan Lee here, with three books so terrible that you should buy something else. A note from the humans: this blog post has been edited to add in prices and links to buy the books; just click the titles for a link to purchase.
Mom thought I thought would like The Great Gatsby because the main character, Jay Gatsby, and I are somewhat similar; we both like extravagance and luxury. (He liked extravagant parties and living in a luxurious mansion; I like extravagance and luxury in heated blankets and using humans as warm-blooded furniture.) I did not like Jay Gatsby. I did not like Jay Gatsby even a little bit. Mom was also surprised that I wasn't impressed with the hedonism of the 1920s, which is when the book is set, since she says I'm a hedonistic little man.
Mom loved Lakota Woman and thought I might, too. When she was telling me about it, she said it was about a Native American woman who was part of of the American Indian Movement in the seventies. Nope. I hated it. First, there's no cats. Second, the author's name includes the word dog. I hate dogs. With a passion. Mom tried telling me that just because there's the word dog in the author's name doesn't mean there's dogs in the book and that anyway, dogs aren't all bad. I don't care. I don't like dogs. Third, there's no hedonism.
Mom wasn't sure I would like this biography about Willa Cather. Apparently, Ms. Cather wrote My Antonia, which the mother of my second favorite human liked and used to give to young bookish humans as gifts. Nope. I didn't like it.