In the fall of 1960, John Steinbeck, having lived abroad off and on for many years, decided to reacquaint himself with his native country. He bought a small RV/truck and had it fitted out with bed, desk, kitchen, and other necessities.
And, for company, he took his dog, Charley, “an old French gentleman Poodle.”
Steinbeck’s observations about America aren’t very interesting today (“I piled up a limited heap of information,” he wrote), but his portrayal of Charley is wonderful. He was a good watch dog, a bond between strangers, and, according to Steinbeck, a “mind-reading dog” (like many other dogs). He understood commands in English, but did better with French. He was normally calm (except when he met some bears in Yosemite), and a good listener when Steinbeck felt like talking. He replied with movements of his tail. He met many people along the way, and sometimes, according to Steinbeck, he made his opinion of them obvious.
“I’ve seen a look in dogs’ eyes,” Steinbeck observed, “a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.”
From coast to coast that autumn, from Maine to California and back through the South up to Sag Harbor, Long Island, where Steinbeck lived when he wasn’t living in Manhattan, Charley was Steinbeck’s faithful companion. Not only was it a good idea for Steinbeck to take him along, it was a brilliant idea for Steinbeck to include him in his account of the journey, because Charley makes the book. America has changed since 1960, but dogs never change. They are our friends; they are genetically formed to love us.
Steinbeck loved Charley. Charley loved him more. Travels With Charley is still worth reading today—because of the dog.