Interesting that Phil should link to an article about the structure of story today, because I want to talk about the same thing. Only I’d like to concentrate on just one element. I’ve blogged before on how the basic elements of plot mirror the essential truths of human life, and even of theology. Today I want to examine an aspect of human nature that makes classic story form, I think, inevitable and necessary. This is my thesis—that our emotions are like animals. More particularly, like dogs.

This idea was prompted by a discussion I’ve been involved in, in a Facebook group. I wanted to explain my own thinking on the question, “Why is it so hard to change habitual responses, even when we know they’re wrongheaded and counterproductive?” I responded that we have reason, and we have feelings. Reason is, well, reasonable. It can be argued with, and sometimes convinced.

Feelings, on the other hand, aren’t reasonable. They don’t listen to argument. Feelings are trained like dogs, and like dogs you can’t appeal to their good sense.

This reminded me of a story. It’s not a dirty story, but you might not want to read it right now, if you’re eating at the computer or something.

I knew a man some years ago. He was a Navy veteran, and every inch the kind of guy you think of when you think, “military.” Very straight in his posture and squared away in his habits. Not somebody you’d immediately think of if you were looking for a buddy to have a good time with.

He told a story about his dogs.

Shortly after the end of World War II, he’d been reassigned to Japan. He and his family—and his two dogs—boarded a ship to make the voyage over.

His dogs (he said with some pride) were well trained. They did not bark when barking wasn’t wanted. They didn’t chase squirrels without permission.

And they didn’t do their “doggy duty” anywhere except on ground. Soil.

There was no soil on the ship.

My friend said he felt terribly sorry for his dogs. He took them out for walks on the deck, and tried to communicate to them that, under these circumstances, the “soil only” rule was out of force.

But the dogs knew their training. In increasing pain, they demonstrated to their master that they could be relied on to obey the Rules of the Pack. Even when he was trying, to the best of his ability, to tell them to forget it.

Eventually they broke down, of course. Nature can be denied only so long. But they hung their heads in shame when it was done. They knew they’d sinned. They knew they’d proven themselves Unworthy.

That’s what human emotions are like. Even when all around there are trusted, rational voices saying, “You’ve been taught wrong. The rule you’re following isn’t a rule at all, and is only harming you and those you love,” the emotions remain faithful. Only the greatest stress will turn them away from obedience to the Rules of the Pack.

The rising tension of a story is how the storyteller dramatizes the struggle between dysfunctional feelings and reason. As things get worse and worse for the character, he struggles to hang on to what his Inner Dog insists is necessary. Only the greatest distress sets him free from the dog’s rules.

I also contend that this is one of the reasons why “bad things happen to good people.” I’m not (let me be very clear) saying that this principle explains all human suffering. Obviously it doesn’t. A child dying of cancer, to take an obvious example, is not being taught a lesson in maturity.

But a lot of the time (I believe), tragedy, pain and fear are the only tools God has to override the insane instructions by which our inner dogs so often operate.

(Let it be noted that I mean to cast no aspersions on dogs as a species. I like dogs very much, and wish I owned one.)