Name: Homer E. C.
Nicknames: Homie, Home Slice, Ankle Biter
Best Friends: Bailey, Lemon, Goats, and Chickens
Age? Flesh Prison: 8 years old. Soul: Ancient
Favorite Snack: Whatever falls from the table
Bedtime: 8pm is pushing it
Dislikes: Being near anyone after 8pm, the delivery man.
Motto: “Grrrrahhh” (Rough Translation: “I don’t get scared; I get even.”)
Fun Fact: Left paw has six toes!
Behold my parents’ most cherished little creature, Homer. While the image before you may not capture his full majesty, I cradled him in my arms to reveal his most photogenic form. Do not be fooled by his gentlemanly facade, for beneath that noble exterior lies a being governed by an ancient unbreakable code: a bedtime as rigid as the stars’ alignment and a daily ritual of frenzied zoomies, as if possessed by the spirit of the wind itself.
Homer’s origins remain shrouded in mystery, but he arrived in our family as a small yet mighty pup. At the time of his grand arrival, I was still dating my now husband, and fate bestowed upon us a noble quest, to watch over young Homer during a journey to the distant shores of Erie. As we wandered the not-so-golden sands, we soon discovered the earth itself conspired against our tiny responsibility, its rough grains unkind to his delicate paws. Without hesitation, my husband became a craftsman of miracles, fashioning a tiny tent, a sanctuary against the elements, where Homer could rest like the princeling he was destined to be.
Homie grew up as the lone canine guardian of a humble yet enchanted farm, his only companions, a council of wise goats and enigmatic chickens. Through these trials, he forged a spirit of unparalleled bravery, a heart steeled against the unknown. Should a shadow move in an unsettling way or a phantom breeze whisper too strangely, he stands his ground, unleashing growls and barks as fierce as a warrior’s battle cry. Yet, despite his valiant nature, he is no beast of malice, his fangs reserved only for the merciless destruction of his plush prey. His chosen trophies are stuffed ducks and sheep, each meeting their inevitable demise beneath his mighty jaws. And in the sacred space of his bed lies his most cherished relic, a tiny tattered sheep, an artifact so dear that no force of nature dares remove it.
Thougomie is a creature of ritual, bound by an ancient and unspoken code. From the sacred hours of dawn until the twilight hour of 7 pm, he welcomes affection, indulging in lavish cuddles as though drawing energy from them. Yet, he is no mere mortal; he is a cunning trickster, feigning helplessness so that he may be carried up the stairs like the regal being he knows himself to be. His mastery of the puppy-eye enchantment is unparalleled, capable of bending even the steeliest will. But beware, when the clock strikes 7 PM, Homie shifts. No longer the affectionate prince, he becomes an immovable force, rooted to the couch or nestled within his bed as if turned to stone. Should you seek a seat, seek elsewhere, for the throne has been claimed.
What becomes of Homie when he is torn from his sacred domain for too long? A most curious transformation unfolds. Recently, while my parents ventured beyond the horizon, Homie found himself within my own dwelling, a realm shared with Lemon, the noble beagle, and Watson, my dashing orange gentleman of a cat. Though our land boasted chickens, their presence could not mend the aching void left by the absence of his goat court. He would perch by the window, eyes filled with longing, searching the distant lands for his lost kingdom and his loyal subjects. Yet, the only creatures that met his gaze were fleeting birds, too wild to command, too free to heed his rule. And so, he sighed, a dethroned king without a kingdom, waiting for the day he might once again reign over his beloved goats.
This is how Homie thinks. Despite his small size, he is a Lord over a great land. Maybe one day we can fully grasp Homer’s majesty.
