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The other day I saw a pack of dogs scavenging in a vacant lot. There was something depressing, even tragic about it. For humans the veneer of civilization is thin; for our best friends, dogs, it’s even thinner. When it’s scratched away only a complete retreat into the wild, with no hope of ever coming up against the civilized world again, is the safest route. Kidnapped from his comfortable home, forced to work as a sled dog, living with a good master, and finally escaping into the wild is the life of Buck, the hero of Jack London’s novel The Call Of The Wild. It is, as far as I know, the first book written from the perspective of an animal, and it’s fitting that it would be a dog. In an earlier London story, To Start A Fire, a man dies from not listening to those who know the Arctic wilderness better than he does–including his companion dog. London’s own life wasn’t nearly so lucky as Buck in his own life. Born in 1876 he spent most of his youth as a criminal, including working as an oyster pirate. He was born in San Francisco at a time when the city had an extremely shady reputation as a place where people disappeared into servitude on ships bound for Asia. His rise to fame as a writer was meteoric, following publication of his stories and his first novel, A Comments1 Comment so far |
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Daughter of The Snows, and his collection of short stories, The Son Of The Wolf. And yet London was troubled. An idealist and passionate socialist he participated in marches on Washington for workers’ rights, and spoke out strongly against capitalism. London also had troubles with alcohol. His death, in 1916, at the young age of forty, is believed by some to have been a suicide. In spite of having lived an extraordinary life his light was snuffed out too soon, not unlike the lives of dogs most of us have lived with and loved.
This was very touching.