The Incredible Journey

“...the only sound was the occasional crackling front he logs or the rustling of a newspaper, the pages of which Longridge turned with some difficulty, for a slender wheat-colored Siamese cat was curled on his knee, chocolate-colored front paws curved in towards one another, sapphire eyes blinking occasionally as he stared into the fire.” 

This is our first glimpse of Tao. He is comfortably sitting on Longridge’s lap. This signifies the cat’s comfort with and trust of the man. This moment also depicts the genuine fondness that Longridge has for the cat—although the cat is encumbering him, he does nothing to dispel the animal from his comfortable resting place. Burnford therefore subtly portrays the man’s loving and doting attitude toward Tao here. 

“Anyone unaccustomed to the rather peculiar points of bull terrier beauty would have thought him a strange if not downright ugly dog, with the naked, down-faced arc of his profile, his deep-chested, stocky body and whip-tapered tail. But the true lover of an ancient and honorable breed would have recognized the blood and bone of this elderly and rather battered body; would have known that in his prime this had been a magnificent specimen of compact sinew and muscle, bred to fight and endure; and would have loved him for his curious mixture of wicked, unyielding fighter yet devoted and docile family pet, and above all for the irrepressible air of sly merriment which beamed in his little slant eyes.” 

This is our first introduction to Bodger. Burnford shows her knack for selecting subtle details in order to convey the dog’s character. Firstly, there is the open admission that many would find Bodger ugly. But the rest of the passage invites the reader to look beyond first impressions—and Burnford’s careful phrasing (“anyone unaccustomed to the rather peculiar points of bull terrier beauty”) invites the reader to examine their own ignorance or prejudices in making pat judgments about the value or merit of animals. Bodger’s beauty lies in his subtlety—the subtlety of his intelligence and joyously mischievous nature. And the rest of the narrative will bear out the point that it is these characteristics that humans with the eyes to appreciate him love most about him.

“By the door lay another dog, nose on paws, brown eyes open and watchful in contrast to the peacefulness radiated by the other occupants of the room. This was a large red-gold Labrador retriever, a young dog with all the heritage of his sturdy working forebears in his powerful build, broad noble head and deep, blunt, gentle mouth.” 

This is our introduction to Luath. If you compare his introduction to that of Tao and Bodger, you can sense that Burnford has inserted insights about each animal’s distinct personality within her introductory portraits of them. Luath’s noble, handsome bearing perfectly equips him to be the north star of the group. It is his internal compass, leadership, and drive that guides the entire journey that the animals are on the cusp of beginning. He also sits in a position much more removed from Longridge than both Tao and Bodger. This speaks to the jealous way that he guards his affections and loyalties: it is James who commands his whole heart, and no one else. 

“[Longridge] put his hand under the young dog’s soft muzzle. The golden-brown eyes looked steadily into his, and then the dog did an unexpected thing: he lifted his right paw and placed it in the man’s hand. Longridge had seen him do this many a time to his own master and he was curiously touched and affected by the trust it conveyed, almost wishing he did not have to leave immediately just after the dog had shown his first responsive gesture.”

In this narratively significant moment, Luath offers his first overture to Longridge. It is very purposeful and quiet—much like Luath’s overall character. We will later learn that Luath was trying to communicate that he and the other animals would soon be undertaking the incredible journey back to their home and family. But at this point in the narrative, the passage demonstrates the sensitive, attuned, and attentive attention that he gives to the Hunter animals. He engages with them as individuals, and senses Luath’s aloofness. He is also touched and charmed by the dog’s new overture. 

“They had kept a good pace for the first hour or so, falling into an order which was not to vary for many miles or days; the Labrador ran always by the left shoulder of the old dog, for the bull terrier was very nearly blind in the left eye, and they jogged fairly steadily together—the bull terrier with his odd, rolling, sailorlike gait, and the Labrador in a slow lope. Some ten yards behind came the cat, whose attention was frequently distracted, when he would stop for a few minutes and then catch up again. But, in between these halts, he ran swiftly and steadily, his long slim body and tail low to the ground.” 

In this passage, the animals fall into a natural formation during the beginning of their journey together. The easy harmony that they enjoy speaks to the depth of their bond to each other. Luath instinctively assumes a protective position with Bodger, compensating for the elder dog’s deafness in this left ear. Tao, the wildest of the bunch, stakes out a place of watchful independence: the cat is a bit separate from the dogs, entertaining his singular interests, but keeps them nearby. 

“The young dog, too, was hungry; but he would have to be on the verge of starvation before the barriers of deep-rooted Labrador heredity would be broken down. For generations his ancestors had been bred to retrieve without harming, and there was nothing of the hunter in his make-up; as yet, any killing was abhorrent to him. He drank deeply at the stream and urged his companions on.” 

This passage demonstrates the subtleties of Luath’s position as a domesticated dog. While his wild instinct leads the trio ever westward, his domestic breeding shows itself in his deep-seated resistance to violence and killing. We see that the liminal space that the dog occupies between the wild world and the world of humans makes him unique and sets him apart from wild animals such as wolves. 

“In one split second a terrible transformation took place; [Tao’s] blue eyes glittered hugely and evilly in the black masked face, and every hair on the wheat-colored body stood upright so that he appeared twice his real size; even the chocolate-colored tail puffed up as it switched from side to side. He crouched low to the ground, tensed and ready, and uttered a high, ear-splitting scream; and as he startled cub turned, the cat sprang.” 

In this quote, Tao has realized that Bodger is being attacked by a bear cub. Burnford uses this occasion to showcase both Tao’s wildness and his devotion to Bodger. When the cat sees his friend in danger, he rushes in with a fearsome ferocity without a moment’s hesitation, imperiling himself in order to defend Bodger. But we also see the cat’s ferocity—the rage and strength which he harnesses in order to defend his beloved friend. Although entering the fray is undoubtedly dangerous, Tao’s confidence and wily strength betray no fear. Burnford therefore crystallizes her characterization of Tao as a fiercely loyal friend and defender to be reckoned with. 

“The young dog turned his head suddenly, his nose twitching, for his keen scent had caught a distant whiff of wood smoke, and of something else—something unidentifiable…Seconds later, the old dog caught the scent too, and started to his feet, snuffing and questioning with his nose. His thin whippy tail began to sweep to and fro and a bright gleam appeared in the slanted black-currant eyes. Somewhere, not too far away, were human beings—his world: he could not mistake their message—or refuse their invitation—they were undoubtedly cooking something. He trotted off determinedly in the direction of the tantalizing smell. The young dog followed somewhat reluctantly, and for once the cat passed them both; a little moon-mad perhaps, for he lay in wait to dart and strike, then streaked back into the shadows, only to reappear a second later in an elaborate stalk of their tails. Both dogs ignored him.” 

This passage significantly says that human beings are Bodger’s entire world. It therefore poignantly highlights Burnford’s loving depiction of domesticated animals. Through her characterization of Bodger, she communicates the undying devotion for humans that is at the core of the elder dog’s identity. It is this undying devotion that leads him to undertake a hundreds-miles-long quest across untamed, dangerous wilderness. She therefore breathes new life into the adage that dogs are man’s best friends. By depicting this love in a way that privileges the dog’s perspective, rather than a human’s, the reader is able to appreciate Bodger’s deep and abiding love on its own terms, rather than the more dull route of having a human merely speak the maxim. This passage therefore beautifully exemplifies “show-don’t-tell” writing. The reader is able to sense the depth of the dog’s love through Burnford’s careful selection of detail and sentiment, rather than having bald or obvious dialogue between humans communicate her point. 

“[Luath] was unable to relax, his constant hunger driving him to forage even when the other two were resting’ and he never joined them in their amiable foolery, when sometimes the cat would skitter away in pretended fear from the growling, wagging white dog, often ending in being chased up a tree. Then the Labrador would sit apart, aloof and watchful, nervous and tense. It seemed as though he was never able to forget his ultimate purpose and goal—he was going home; home to his own master, home where he belonged, and nothing else mattered. This lodestone of longing, this certainty, drew him to lead his companions ever westward through wild and unknown country, as unerringly as a carrier pigeon released from an alien loft.” 

In this passage, we see the way that Luath’s body is suffering due to the journey. His natural predisposition to avoid violence, and his lack of practice with hunting, means that he is undertaking this gargantuan task, which requires all the strength and cunning possible, while malnourished. Burnford therefore portrays the dog’s unerring love of his human master and home as one that is slightly impractical and absurd: Luath will contravene his own well-being in order to come back to his master and rightful home. Burnford therefore depicts the depth of Luath’s devotion to his master and human family. Despite the danger to him, and the complete absence of any reliable human aid, Luath remains steadfast in his mission. This self-sacrificing loyalty is what humans have loved about dogs for hundreds of years—but Burnford personalizes and tailors this idea through the singular well-developed character of Luath. 

“Nomadic life seemed to agree with the cat. He was in fine fettle, sleek and well-groomed and as debonair as ever, and had adapted himself so well that at times it appeared as though he was positively enjoying the whole expedition. Sometimes he left the other two for an hour or so at a time, but they had ceased to pay any attention to his absence now, as sooner or later he always reappeared.” 

It’s a known fact that cats have a predominantly wild genetic makeup. Burnford emphasizes this fact in her depictions of Tao, who is the most well-suited of the trio for the journey through the wilderness. Tao’s beautiful appearance and wily strength shine forth in this passage, and his advantage over the two dogs, whose genetics and history of domestication differ from the cat, is fully showcased. Tao’s penchant for leaving the dogs, in order to undertake smaller missions that the reader is never fully told about, also speaks to the cat’s wild mystery. The dogs, bred to be by the side of humans in distinct capacities, do not have any secrets from the reader. Their comings, goings, and motivations are plainly visible or outrightly stated. But Tao’s solitary forays remain slyly opaque to the reader. These differences between the animals also speak to what humans find enchanting about dogs and cats as separate entities. They appreciate and can be moved by the immovable loyalty exhibited by dogs, but they are also enchanted, teased, and taken in by cats’ auras of mystery and wildness. 

“The leaves were losing their color rapidly, and many of the trees were nearly bare, but the dogwood and pigeonberry by the sides of the trail still blazed with color, and the Michaelmas daisies and fireweed flourished. Many of the birds of the forest had already migrated; those that were left gathered into great flocks, filling the air with their restless chatter as they milled around, the long drawn-out streamers suddenly wheeling to form a clamorous cloud, lifting and falling in indecision. They saw few other animals: the noisy progress of the dogs warned the shy natural inhabitants long before their approach; and those that they did meet were too busy and concerned with their winter preparations to show much curiosity.” 

In this passage, Burnford fleshes out the wild terrain surrounding the trio of domestic animals through carefully-selected details. The rapid color loss of the leaves speaks to the rapid onset of autumn and winter, which would present insurmountable difficulties to the traveling band of domestic animals. While they each have vestiges of their wild ancestry, they are not truly wild, and are therefore not adequately adapted or equipped to survive the harsh conditions of a Canadian winter. Unlike the wild animals around them—who are either accustomed to or instinctually and genetically predisposed toward making furious preparations for their own survival of the winter—Bodger, Tao, and Luath can be seen as tourists in the landscape. They make cunning use of what wild instincts remain in their breeding, but they are merely passing through the wilderness: their true home is by the side of humans. 

“When an old man carrying a canvas bag appeared, talking quietly to himself, the bull terrier stepped out and awaited him. The old man did not pause: small and bent, he hobbled quickly past, lifting an ancient green felt hat from a crown of white hair as he went, and nodding to the dog with a brief smile of great sweetness. Two little gray-and-white chickadees preceded him, flitting from branch to branch over his head. [Bodger] fell in contentedly behind.” 

In this passage, the animals begin their encounter with a slightly mad old man whom we will later learn is named Mr. Aubyn—a man who “had lived so long with only wild animals for company that he might easily be confused” (135). In this intriguing interlude, Burnford depicts the animals interacting with the curious, harmless, and almost child-like Mr. Aubyn. His “smile of great sweetness” speaks to the man’s genuinely lovable and loving character, while all of his other actions may confuse the reader. Ultimately, he treats the animal trio as if they are, indeed, humans—inviting them into his home and setting three places at his table for them, and speaking with them as if they are his acquaintances who do not visit him enough. He will later be reached via telephone when Longridge realizes what the animals have done and will recount his time with the animals as if they were humans. This interlude therefore will only remain known to the animals, and it is magical because of this. Through the character of Mr. Aubyn, Burnford communicates that, although the animals yearn to spend their lives next to the humans, and vice versa, they are still capable of having their own interior lives and experiences that will forever remain obscure to their human companions.

“Once more the Labrador swam the river, climbed out on the far side, shook himself, and barked. There was no mistaking the command. The old dog took another reluctant step forward, whining piteously, his expressive tail tucked under. The barking continued; again the terrier advanced; again the Labrador swam across, and the third time the old dog waded in up to his chest and started swimming. He was not a very good swimmer; he swam in jerky rapid movements, his head held high out of the water, his little black eyes rolling fearfully; but he was a bull terrier, a ‘white cavalier,’ and he kept on, following the wake of the other, until at last he climbed out on the far side.”

This passage gracefully exemplifies Burnford’s decision to depict the animals’ interior thoughts through both detail selection and exposition—and not through assigning them an unnatural human inner or outer dialogue. She shows Luath’s actions in detail first, and then explains what they mean: He is commanding his companions to join him. And then, again through a mixture of naming behavior details and then exposition of those details, she lets us in on what Bodger is feeling. The body language that each animal use is never contravened in favor of fantastical anthropomorphism. This grounds the reader in the undeniable animal-ness of the characters. While the exposition makes them emotionally accessible, these characters are resolutely not humans. 

“...The cat was beside himself with terror and it was a long time before he finally made up his mind. When he did it was with a sudden blind desperate rush at the water, completely un-catlike. His expression of horror and distaste was almost comical as he started swimming towards the young dog who waited for him a few yards out. He proved to be a surprisingly good swimmer, and was making steady progress across, the dog swimming alongside, when tragedy struck.” 

This passage demonstrates the manner in which Burnford builds emotional resonance and suspense. Until now, Tao has been portrayed as almost invincible—unphased by the difficulties that life in the wild poses for her canine companions. But the water presents his first vulnerability. It is therefore emotionally wrenching for the reader to watch the confident and capable Tao struggle here. And, when the narrator states that “tragedy struck,” it leaves the reader on the edge of their seat in anticipation for what danger is about to befall the beloved character. 

“They had retained their Finnish identity complete when they left their homeland, exchanging only one country’s set of solitudes and vast lonely forests for another’s, and as yet their only real contact with the new world that lay beyond their property line was through their ten-year-old daughter Helvi, who knew no other homeland. Helvi walked the lonely miles to the waiting school bus each day, and through her they strengthened their roots in the security of the New World and were content meanwhile with horizons limited by their labor.”

This passage demonstrates the careful selection of details that Burnford executes in order to flesh out human characters. Just as the wilderness isolates Bodger, Tao, and Luath from the comforts of the life they have enjoyed with humans, so it isolates and curtails the experiences of the humans who choose to live within it. Through this depiction, Burnford taps into the objective indifference of nature—with coexists with its splendor and beauty. The wilderness does not care about the survival of any of the beings inside of it. It has no sentience. And in that sense, it is merciless and those that wish to live within or beside it must rely upon their own strength and knowledge in order to survive. What’s true of humans is also true of animals—both domesticated and wild. The passage also demonstrates the lively diversity of human life within these Canadian wilds. This depiction therefore reflects a narrative attitude toward the wilderness that is both realistic and romantic.  

“Mrs. Nurmi was touched by [Tao’s] apparent need for companionship: that his behavior was unlike that of any other cat she attributed to his foreign appearance. But her husband was not so easily deceived—he had noticed the unusual intensity in the blue eyes. When a passing raven mocked the cat’s voice and he did not look up, then later sat unheeding in the stable to a quick rustle in the straw behind, Reino knew that the cat was deaf.”

In this passage, Burnford relies upon the keen observation of humans in order to tell us a key detail about Tao’s current state: water has blocked up his ears and caused a temporary deafness. By relaying this information through the eyes of a human observer, Burnford foregrounds the delicate subtleties of the human-pet relationship. She communicates that, in order to properly care for domesticated animals, humans cannot rely upon language. They must, in a sense, learn the language (i.e., the body language) of domestic pets. Burnford therefore asserts that animals also challenge humans to think and exercise empathy beyond the bounds of their own humanity—to enter the realm of the animals, in a sense. Through this. Burnford also asserts that a beautiful symbiosis that involves mutual challenge on the part of both human and animals is possible.

“And as they listened, they looked down in wonder, for there on the rag rug lay one of these, stretched out flat on his royal back, his illustrious tail twitching idly, and his jeweled eyes on their daughter’s hand as she turned the pages that spoke of his ancestors—the guardian cats of the Siamese princesses. Each princess, when she came down to bathe in the palace lake, would slip her rings for safekeeping on the tail of her attendant cat. So zealous in their charge were these proud cats that they bent the last joint sideways for safer custody, and in time the faithful tails became crooked forever, and their children’s and their children’s children…” 

In this passage, Burnford delves into the Siamese cat’s noble ancestral lineage. With a mixture of romance and historical legend, she communicates that, although Tao is the wildest of the bunch, his union with human beings as a domesticated animal also has ancient roots. Passages such as this one firmly ground Burnford’s depiction of the lives of domestic animals as far from simple: their fates and histories are intimately connected to that of humans. 

“The two dogs were in very low spirits when they continued their journey without the cat. The old dog in particular moped badly, for the cat had been his constant close companion for many years—ever since the day when a small, furiously hissing kitten, with comically long black-stockinged legs and a nearly white body, had joined the Hunter family. This apparition had refused to give one inch of ground to the furious and jealous bull terrier, who was an avowed cat hater, and the terror of the nearby feline population; instead it had advanced, with every intention of giving battle evident in the tiny body. The dog, for the first time in his life, capitulated. That day a bond had been formed between them, and thereafter they had been inseparable.” 

In this poignant passage, Burnford uses exposition of Bodger’s interior thoughts to communicate the depth of his bond to Tao. Through her nuanced sensitivity, she is able to assert the individual identities of each member of the animal trio. They don’t share a monolithic, one-dimensional bond. Instead, much like humans, they each have distinct psychologies, experiences, relationships, and feelings. This depiction therefore ultimately foregrounds compassion and helps readers to treat animals as full beings with real lives. 

“All too soon it was obvious that [Luath] was fast losing ground, and the effects of his inadequate diet were beginning to show in endurance. He was on his back with the collie on top, ready to give the final slash, when the old dog took over. Up to now he had merely been an interested spectator, taking a keen interest from a professional point of view, for a good fight is meat and drink to a bull terrier. Now a look of pure, unholy joy appeared in the black-currant eyes, and he tensed his stocky, close-knit body, timing his spring with a mastery born of long practice. A white, compact bundle of fighting art shot like a steel projectile to the collie’s throat. The impact knocked the black dog over as though he were a feather…” 

Although much of the narrative is spent relaying Bodger’s advanced age and frailty, Burnford also intentionally balances those depictions against depictions like this—which showcase the dog’s indomitable will and spirit, and also his occasional bursts of physical might and splendor. This balanced portrayal helps Burnford to flesh out Bodger as a full, complex character. 

“The boy was trembling slightly as he approached the dead animal, unable to forget the look of evil, savage fury on the catlike face which now lay before him, lips still curled back over white, perfect fangs. He stood looking down at his unexpected victim, unwilling to touch it, waiting for his father, who presently came, panting and anxious, calling as he ran. He stopped, staring at the tawny body lying on the pine needles, and then at the white face of his son.”

Throughout Burnford’s depiction of the lynx, she repeatedly characterizes the animal as ruthless, wicked, and evil. This is an interesting choice, as, ostensibly, the animal is simply existing as a wild animal and hunting Tao as a manner of meeting its own need for sustenance. The lynx is enacting its natural place within the circle of life. And yet, because the lynx is pursuing the beloved Tao, Burnford ratchets up a sense of ill will and malice in the lynx. This speaks to the peculiar anthropomorphism that humans attach to their animal companions. The lynx, a wild animal with no emotional import to humans, is depicted in a one-dimensional way that does not afford it any admirable interior emotion. This contrasts sharply with the emotional resonance and invitations to empathy and emotional engagement that characterize the author’s depiction of the domesticated animals. It also foregrounds the objective indifference that can be found in both nature and its creatures: they do not care about the emotional lives of humans and the animals that humans have domesticated. 

“They were an elderly couple, James Mackenzie and his wife Nell, living alone now in a big farmhouse which still held the atmosphere of a large, cheerful family living and laughing and growing up in it. They were well used to dogs, for there had been eight children in that house once upon a time, and a consequent succession of pets who had always started their adopted life out in the yard but invariably found their way into the household on the wildest pretexts of the children: misunderstood mongrels, orphaned kittens, sad strays, abandoned otter pups—Nell Mackenzie’s soft heart had been as defenseless before them then as it was now.” 

In this passage, Burnford communicates an ongoing theme of the novel: that domestic pets and children share a singular, special bond of love. The Mackenzies are prone to take in the animals because of their experiences with their own children and the numerous pets whom the family has lovingly cared for at the behest of its resident children. The passage therefore demonstrates the deeply affecting intimate bonds of love that can form between children, their parents, and the animals that both the adults and children fall in love with. And just as Helvi’s instant connection with Tao depicts the singular poignancy of children’s connection to domesticated animals, the mere echo of the love that the Mackenzie children shared with their pets is enough to inspire the elder Mackenzie’s lifelong and steadfast love for cats and dogs. 

“To [Mackenzie’s] relief the dog fell in behind unquestioningly, following him back to the farmhouse, his resistance weakened to the point where he longed only to be back in the well-ordered world of human beings, that solid world where men commanded and dogs obeyed.” 

At this point in the journey, Bodger is all too eager to leave the unpredictable wilderness and to be doted upon and cared for in the orderly world of humans. This passage therefore illustrates that, despite any wild heritage that remains in his genetic makeup, Bodger’s true home is the one that he makes by the side of humans. 

“...above all they could not wait to see their pets. Over and over again Elizabeth had discussed their first meeting, for she was secretly longing to be reassured that Tao would not have forgotten her. She had bought him a red leather collar as a present. Peter was perfectly happy and not in any way doubtful about his reunion; ever since he had been old enough to think at all he had known that, just as surely as Bodger belonged to him and was always there, so did he belong to the bull terrier—and his homecoming would be all the present that his dog would need.” 

This quote depicts the great love that Peter and Elizabeth have for their pets. Tao and Bodger are the things that they miss most dearly about their lives. Burnford is therefore highlighting the unique place that pets occupy within the psychological and emotional lives of humans and asserting that the love shared within this bond is something distinct from connections between humans. By depicting the love between the children and their pets in this way, Burnford asserts that communing with, communicating with, and sharing love and loyalty with an animal is an inimitable experience.