Dog Stories
by Carol Stanley
When I was young, my mother told me that as a girl she had read all the Albert Payson Terhune dog stories. She didn’t suggest that I read them, only made the comment in passing. Being curious, I sought them out and became immediately charmed by his wonderful, courageous, exceedingly intelligent collies. There were many, and all of them triumphed over adversity and exhibited great courage. There was “Lad,” “a thoroughbred in spirit as well as in blood,” who was nothing short of noble. In each book he was a courageous hero, a blue ribbon prize winner, and always behaved in a manner that made his owner proud. Then there was “Buff,” an energetic dazzler, and “Lochinvar,” and my favorite of the Terhune kennels, “Gray Dawn.” He was a huge “blue” collie, who was a clumsy, plodding clown, considered a hopeless case, until a dramatic event helps him find his courage. I loved him almost as much as I loved my own dog. I wanted to live at Sunnybank with the Terhunes. I wanted them to adopt me so that I could inherit the kennel when they died. I had it all figured out. That’s how smitten I was. I of course wanted a collie, but my mother felt that they shed too much. That didn’t seem sufficient reason for barring the breed from our household, but she prevailed.
Imagine how surprised I was when, as an adult, I read an essay in which the writer laid out a case against Terhune as a narrow minded, bigoted WASP, and posited that all his dogs (my beloved collies!) exhibited just those same characteristics. Like Terhune, they were innately suspicious of anyone with brown skin, and had an essentially WASP (not a kind term itself) country club view of the world. I went back and perused the books and found that this was, in many ways, not an unfair observation. It was disillusioning, but I still couldn’t help loving the dogs. I had to have quite a chat with myself, and investigated the possibility that I too held Terhune’s so not politically correct view of things, else why would I admire the values of his apparently narrow-minded WASPy canines. To this day I feel guilty.
When I read Jim Kjelgaard’s “Big Red,” I desperately wanted an Irish Setter. Again, the shedding was an issue. Then there was my favorite Malamute who was honored with a statue in NY’s Central Park – Balto. When I read about the heroic sled dog who led his team on the final leg of the 1925 serum run to Nome with diphtheria antitoxin I became a lifelong fan. It was such a rousing, heroic story, filled with danger and the lives of so many depended on the brave dog. I wanted to immediately move to Alaska, own sled dogs and run the Iditarod – an event most definitely not in my skill set. One could gather from the above that I was an impressionable child.
In high school. When we read “The Odyssey,” I was deeply moved by the fact that only his loyal dog Argos recognized Odysseus on his return from his twenty-year voyage. This was such deep and abiding love and fidelity. Also, dogs apparently had longer lives then.
Then, of course there’s Steinbeck’s “Travels With Charley.” In 1960 Steinbeck set off on a journey with his standard poodle. Steinbeck was dying, and he knew it. He wanted to see the country one last time. In a jury-rigged camper he drove from Long Island to the Pacific Northwest. His only companion, Charley. He and Charley saw a great deal. His astute observations of what he finds – he was disturbed by the direction in which he saw the country headed – are as trenchant and insightful today as at the time Steinbeck wrote on the cusp of the 60’s. But I digress…
Later came the marvelous picture books about “Good Dog Carl” that when my son was very young, we looked through again and again. Carl is a big hearted, gentle Rottweiler, who seems to be the nominal nanny of a little girl named Madeline. (I have no idea where her parents were. They seem to be completely absent.) The illustrations are beautiful, and one cannot help but have deep affection for this canine. He’s irresistible.
But, of course, there is one unparalleled dog story – “The Call of The Wild” – in my mind unmatched by any. Jack London’s tale of the huge, iron-muscled St. Bernard /Collie mix, Buck, and his reversion to atavism in the wilds of 1890’s Canadian Yukon, is just about as exciting as it gets. I was enthralled. Buck was born to a comfortable life in California. Stolen and sold to pay gambling debts he was caged and shipped off the Canada to a harsh and unforgiving life in the Yukon. London marvelously anthropomorphized Buck’s observations, thoughts and feelings. If you haven’t read it, I won’t spoil it for you. Just go out and get the book and start reading. Now!
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