December 19, 2007 – Cloudy, warmer. Joseph Campbell wrote that the material of myth is the material of our life, the material of our body, and the material of our environment, and a living, relevant mythology deals with these things in terms that are appropriate to the nature of knowledge of the time.
 Modern humans, jammed mostly in cities and suburbs and work that is difficult, insecure and unsatisfying, are removed from nature, from animals, and are even farther removed from myth.
  This was my life – a form of existential loneliness –  until I moved to the country, to the farm, and until animals, especially dogs, began taking me on unexpected journeys that were, in some ways, the stuff and matter of myth, as well as a reconnection to the natural world, from which I was utterly estranged, and which offers it own challenges and difficulties.
  We have modern myths – Batman, Frankenstein, Superman – that we create to reflect our own times, but lately I’ve been drawn to tracking down some of the older, ancient ones, to try and understand my life, the role of my dogs in it, and the directions they are taking me.
  Campbell found that animals and myth correspond with the fantasies of pain and madness. Ancient, symbolic figures seem to arise spontaneously from the broken-off, tortured state of mind of many modern humans, suffering from anxieties, neuroses, disorders from autism to schizophrenia.
   It isn’t really clear whether more people are suffering from these disorders, or whether we and our drug companies are simply giving them more names and medications.
  Either way, these disorders, says Campbell,  are the condition of one who has lost touch with the life and thought of his or her community.
   The usual pattern, Campbell writes, is this: first, a break away or departure from the local social order and context. Next, a long, deep retreat inward and backward, backward, as it were, in time, and inward, deep into the psyche; a chaotic series of encounters there, darkly disturbing, even terrifying experiences.
  If we are fortunate, then we encounter experiences of a centering kind, fulfilling, harmonizing, giving us new courage, and then finally, a return to the journey of rebirth of life. That term is fascinating to me, because I believe that journeying to a rebirth of life is, in many ways, the point of my life, and dogs are now enmeshed almost inextricably in that journey, as are many wonderful humans.
   Campbell says that is the almost universal formula not only of the mythological hero, but of the animal who appears to accompany him:

   l. Separation. 2. Initiation. 3. Return.

   This is especially relevant to me, and to many animal lovers I know,  because in recent years a number of dogs have appeared who have led me on unexpected journeys. It might be to a farm, to therapy work, to a lonely walk during the holidays to a herd of sheep. All are journeys of a different kind.
  This, for me, dogs are powerful creatures who appeared at critical times and altered the course of my life, which is one of the oldest of all the myths:
  First was Orson, the border collie who led me to writing about dogs and then, led me to this farm
  Then Rose, the working dog who appeared when I needed her and allowed me to live and survive on the farm.
  Finally, there was Izzy, another border collie abandoned on a farm who has led me, along with him, into hospice work, very meaningful to me.
   In between there have been other, loving and wonderful dogs, but they have been transitional, almost interim creatures for me, in that they have not come to take me somewhere, or lead me somewhere, but simply to enter my life and enrich it, which they have done.
  In myth, a hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of almost supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered, and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from the mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow men.
   When I first heard of Izzy, a beautiful dog abandoned on a farm upstate for more than five years, he seemed a myth to me. And he has clearly led me on a journey to mysterious places – death itself – where he has been a boon to people.
   Myths are important to people who love animals, especially dogs. And so are the fantasies of loss and madness. I’ve seen this phenomena again and again, not only in myself, but all over the dog world, among obsessive breeders, traumatized dog rescue workers, grief-strick dog owners whose animals have died, compulsive show addicts, and even among those drawn to the ancient and beautiful ballet of herding.
  Without a doubt, there are links to myth, madness and the love of animals. And it’s not difficult to see why. British analyst Dorothy Burlingham wrote in “Twins” that powerful animal fantasies often inhabit the minds of lonely or troubled children: “The child takes an imaginary animal as his intimate and beloved companion; subsequently he is never separated from his animal friend, and in this way he overcomes loneliness. This animal offers the child what he is searching for: faithful love and unswerving devotion. There is nothing that this dumb animal cannot understand; speech is quite unnecessary, for understanding comes without words.”
   Those ideas are close to me and my life, and very powerful. So is an awareness that myth, journeys and madness are linked to the condition of human beings open to them, and self-awareness. Myths are important. They explain us, awaken us, inspire us and connect us to life.
  My dogs, I see, are connected to all of these things, and it is one of the many reasons I respect them so much as the animals they are, rather than the children so many people would like to make them. Children don’t appear of the mists and take us on journeys. Only animals can do that.