Behind many human characters in classic literature, a cat slinks and purrs, a dog barks and bounds or an old pal staggers on his last legs.
Through the blizzard of assigned high school reading, I never saw the animals — or their purpose — clearly. The goal was to muscle through each tome; extract the antagonist’s pathos, identify stakes, pluck the underlying themes and scribe a synthesis. Sometimes, I hit the mark. Other times, I missed the whole universe.
As a semi-retired person, I’m now revisiting some short classics that barely dented my psyche 50 years ago. Following are but a few animal characters that left a lasting impression upon second reading (warning: contains full or partial spoilers):
In Abigail Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle, protagonist Mary Katherine “Merricat” Blackwell only takes solace behind the locked gates of the family estate. Ensconced in the love of her older sister, frail uncle and faithful shadow, Jonas, the cat, Merricat wishes away the lives of her New England hometown’s taunting residents.
Jonas is hardly a lemming. Rather, he is both piqued antenna and tireless empath who’s loyalty is challenged when a male cousin tries to wheedle his way into the reclusive family’s graces. “How can I make cousin Mary like me?” he asks the attentive Jonas. However, Merricat later rebukes Jonas for listening to him: “Jonas,” I said, “he is a ghost.” upon which Jonas closed his eyes and turned away from her.
Later, Jonas warms a forested hideout for Merricat and her sister as they flee a rabid hoard. While flames from their burning house lick the night sky, Merricat confesses the horrible secret her sister knew all along.
George Orwell’s allegorical Animal Farm is an anthropomorphic fantasy. Led by two pigs, Snowball and Napoleon, the animals of Manor Farm rebel against their capitalist taskmaster, Mr. Jones, driving him from the property. Being the “smartest” among the animals, the pigs share power but are sharply divided on how to build and run their collectivist utopia. Snowball touts shared bounties while Napoleon tacitly nurtures an autocracy.
Toward that end, Napoleon covets a litter of stout puppies whom he trains to do his vicious bidding. After Snowball is expelled via a violent coup, the now adult dogs snarl and snap at any discontent murmured among the four-legged and feathered comrades and summarily execute confessed or suspected dissenters. The climax shows a rotund Napoleon morphing into a much crueler likeness of Mr. Jones.
Animal Farm reflects how humans have systemically corrupted the intrinsically sweet nature of powerfully-built dogs to wield status and power over others. Ancient Romans did it to the mastiffs. More recently, gang-landers and fight ring profiteers have done it to pit bulls. Inside every cruel pet is a cruel human.
Few foreshadows are more chilling than the one revealed in John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. Drifters during the 1930s era depression, George and Lennie meet an old handyman, Candy, on the ranch where they’ve been hired. The one-handed Candy is old and decrepit with a retired sheepdog to match. The sight and smell of the mangy hound offends Carlson, a fellow ranch hand, who convinces Candy to let him mercifully put the dog down with a shot to the back of the head.
Candy’s dog can barely stand after Carlson slips a rope over his head and leads him out of the dimly lit bunkhouse. Lying back on his bed, Candy chides himself for not doing the deed himself. As he wonders whether he, too, shall one day outlive his usefulness, a distant shot echoes through the night.
George’s friend, Lennie, is also a misfit. Burly, but mentally-challenged, Lennie is drawn to tenderness and soft beings. But his brute strength precludes a gentle touch and he unwittingly kills what gives him comfort. After inadvertently snapping a woman’s neck, Lennie hides out at a pre-arranged riverside clearing. George catches up with him, ahead of an angry mob. While distracting Lennie with musings of a fantasy life on their own ranch, George raises a gun he’d stolen to the base of Lennie’s skull and fires.
My 16-year-old self was aghast at the shooting of Candy’s dog and, later, Lennie. Fifty years later, I understand that humane pet euthanasia presided by loving faces was not available to poor migrant workers 90 years ago. My once hatred of Carlson for shooting Candy’s dog and of George for shooting his best friend has melted under the penetrating rays of compassion.
I can consider the huge heart it takes to know when it’s time to say goodbye — or spare one from a prolonged, frightening death.