Chapter Four: Homer's Odyssey

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     For most children, their first word is either “mommy” or “daddy,” the chosen parent able to lord it over their not-so-lucky partner. That glean of parental pride typically lasts until the child screws up somehow, like robbing a liquor store or fixating on the latest Raffi tune.

 

     In the case of Emily, neither Alma nor I could claim lording privileges. Uttered a few months before her second birthday, Emily’s first word was “dog,” as were her second, third, fourth, and one-hundredth words. From that point on, we knew our daughter had a serious thing for animals. When Emily turned two, her vocabulary expanded, and one word became four. Our daughter used that occasion to inform us she would “die without a dog.”

 

     After numerous follow-up requests and a baby brother on the way, Alma and I decided we would surprise Emily with an early third birthday present. That decision led us to the unusually named “Shady Pines Rescue Center.”

 

     Staring at the name above the door, I asked Alma, “Are you sure this isn’t a nursing home?”

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     Alma shook her head, my cue to keep quiet. Once inside, we explained what we were looking for, and a helpful vet tech took us on a tour. Our walk included dozens of cages holding everything from micro-sized Chihuahuas to massive Great Danes.

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     Alma and I were aiming for something in between. Having read about Golden Retrievers and their affinity for children, we asked if they had a Golden at the center.

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     Eager to please, our tech said, “You’re in luck - we have the perfect dog.”  Five minutes later, he returned with Homer.

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     Alma and I had researched Goldens. We looked at numerous pictures and studied variations in color. We knew size; we knew weight; we had watched YouTube videos – Homer looked like none of those dogs.

Watching Homer stroll out to meet us, Alma and I were dumbfounded.

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     “Are we sure he’s a Golden Retriever?” Alma whispered to me quietly.

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     I looked further. “I’m not even sure he’s a dog.”

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     Homer’s head bore some resemblance to a retriever, though only in the sense my own resembled Brad Pitt’s. Like a retriever, Homer had a long nose, two ears, two eyes, and an impressive set of teeth. It was there the resemblance ended.

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     Unlike the retriever pictures we studied, Homer’s coat was curly, similar to the fluff you see emanating from the average poodle. His fur’s color was also far from golden, a mix of brown and white, with the latter drawing a little bit ahead in the end.

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     As with his fur, Homer’s ears were also unusual, his left short and floppy, with his right almost curved. Overall, his head looked like he had run afoul of some demented dog groomer.

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     As irregular as his face, Homer’s tail appeared to have been chopped off short of its original size. Aside from a half-hearted wag as he walked into the room, his tail hung down stiffly between his legs. It seemed Homer was evaluating us just as much as we were him.

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     Alma and I continued our whispering as Homer stood before us, though the incongruity of our reaction seemed apparent.

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     “Why are we whispering,” I said, still in a hushed tone. “Homer’s a dog. He doesn’t have a remote clue what we’re talking about.”

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     “Are you kidding?” Alma said, pointing, “look at his eyes.”

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     I looked. Rather than the usual doggie brown, Homer’s eyes were almost silver-black. Even more striking than their color was their intelligence. Cocking his head slightly, I realized Homer not only heard every word we were saying, he understood us as well. This dog was discolored, his fur seeming to travel in six different directions at once, and I suddenly couldn’t have cared less - all I could see was perfection.   

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     “This,” I declared to the tech, “is our dog.”

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     Alma still looked dubious. “Are you sure?” She pointed to Homer’s brownish-white fur and said, “He looks old.”

 

     Present for Homer’s birth, our escort vouched that he was only nine months old. With that reassurance, I looked back at Alma. Her nod was all I needed.

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     “Homer,” I said to our now pseudo-Golden Retriever, “you’re coming home.”

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     With that, Homer wagged his tail once, a gesture we were to learn meant massive approval. Our new addition then walked forward to join us. As far as Homer was concerned, the decision was pre-ordained from the start. Given later events, he may have been right.

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     To avoid returning home with five or six dogs, Emily had stayed at our house with my mom and dad during our visit to Shady Pines. Driving home, I worried about her reaction to our decision. Emily had studied the same dog books that Alma and I had perused, pointing to the pictures of all the dogs she wanted.

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     Homer looked like none of those. Given his appearance, we were taking the shelter’s word that he was a dog at all. With all that, I wondered if Emily would be disappointed.

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     I was worried for nothing. Emily, my studious little roughneck of a girl, studied Homer with the same intensity she brought to virtually everything, including her breakfast Captain Crunch. My daughter’s appraisal lasted all of ten seconds; she then ran forward and attempted to jump on Homer’s back. My little girl was in love.

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     For his part, Homer accepted Emily’s attention with his usual Zenlike expression and the same single wag of the tail he displayed at the shelter. Homer loved Emily back.

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     The only expression of disapproval came from my mother. Mom had never trusted dogs, having been bitten by a neighbor’s when she was only five years old. Now forced to accept a canine in her extended family, her expression bordered on puzzlement.

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     “What is he, exactly?”

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     “He’s a Golden Retriever, Mom.”

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     “Are you sure?  Look at him,” she said, watching Homer and Emily licking each other’s faces. What if he’s one of those sociopaths?”   

 

     “He’s a dog, Mom, not a serial killer.”

 

     Still disapproving, my mother said, “He doesn’t look like any dog I’ve ever seen. What do you know about this shelter?” 

 

     My mother’s concerns aside, Homer began patrolling our house with almost German efficiency, keeping an eye on

Emily while letting Alma and I know when we were screwing up. Homer made us aware of nap times, let us know when Emily managed to skin her knee, and, in the highlight of his first year, scared the hell out of a neighborhood teenager who made the mistake of using our yard as a shortcut.

 

     Alma was letting Homer out as our prospective trespasser scaled our back fence. From Alma’s account, Homer traveled the one hundred twenty feet from our backdoor to the fence in about two and a half seconds. Fortunately for our insurance rates, the now-terrified teenager managed to reverse course just in time, avoiding a nasty bite for his troubles.

 

     Beyond driving off backyard invaders, Homer’s self-written job description included at least one more unforeseen item. Some dogs limited their disdain to vacuum cleaners, but Homer engaged in a much more subversive brand of household warfare. In a legendary battle well known in our suburban neighborhood - Homer targeted the mailman.

 

     As an older home, our house in South Euclid included a mail slot in our front door. A kindly sort, our postman would drop the day’s letters, circulars, and bills through the opening, initiating a metallic clang as the slot closed after the mail slid through.

 

     Homer hated that clang. A home invasion he couldn’t chase off; the sound was a defeat, a loss he would not tolerate in the residence he now called his own.

 

     An intelligent dog, Homer was able to predict the mail’s arrival. Every day he sat in wait at our front door, hoping to short-circuit the appearance of the offending letters and, in a perfect world, take off the hand of the individual who put them there.

 

     His fantasy dashed on a daily basis; Homer refused to be discouraged. Short of preventing the mail from arriving, he barked at it, growled at it, but never deigned to touch it, as if dog-to-mail contact would stand as an admission of defeat.

 

     Realizing she would have to adjust to this daily battle, Alma moved the kids’ nap times so Homer’s postal vendetta would not jolt them awake. Our mailman also attempted to adjust, sliding our mail piece-by-piece to reduce the noise to a Homer-approved level. Eventually realizing he was only annoying Homer further, he gave up his attempt at detente, becoming considerably less pleasant when we had occasion to speak.       

 

     Jack’s arrival threw Homer off for only a moment or two. When we brought our son home, Homer’s gaze swung solemnly between Jack, Alma, Emily, and me. In the end, he figured if he could manage three of us, four might not be so bad. Walking over to Jack, Homer sniffed our son’s face and gave that single wag of the tail to which we had all become so accustomed. Seeing Homer’s reaction, Emily declared, “Look, Mom, maybe Jack’s not so bad after all.” 

 

With that ringing endorsement, our family was now five.