Homer’s Odyssey – Author Interview – Gwen Cooper

Dogs Rule Cats Drool is pleased to have with us today visiting author Gwen Cooper. Gwen’s latest book a memoir/pets book, Homer’s Odyssey (Delacorte Press). Gwen’s love of animals is clearly evident in all the volunteer work she has done to help animals in need and if that wasn’t evidence enough her latest book is about an extraordinary cat who changed her life forever and transformed her into the woman she always wanted to be.

About The Book:
Once in nine lives,
something extraordinary happens…

The last thing Gwen Cooper wanted was another cat. She already had two, not to mention a phenomenally underpaying job and a recently broken heart. Then Gwen’s veterinarian called with a story about a three-week-old eyeless kitten who’d been abandoned. It was love at first sight.

Everyone warned that Homer would always be an “underachiever,” never as playful or independent as other cats. But the kitten nobody believed in quickly grew into a three-pound dynamo, a tiny daredevil with a giant heart who eagerly made friends with every human who crossed his path. Homer scaled seven-foot bookcases with ease and leapt five feet into the air to catch flies in mid-buzz. He survived being trapped alone for days after 9/11 in an apartment near the World Trade Center, and even saved Gwen’s life when he chased off an intruder who broke into their home in the middle of the night.

But it was Homer’s unswerving loyalty, his infinite capacity for love, and his joy in the face of all obstacles that inspired Gwen daily and transformed her life. And by the time she met the man she would marry, she realized Homer had taught her the most important lesson of all: Love isn’t something you see with your eyes.

Homer’s Odyssey is the once-in-a-lifetime story of an extraordinary cat and his human companion. It celebrates the refusal to accept limits—on love, ability, or hope against overwhelming odds. By turns jubilant and moving, it’s a memoir for anybody who’s ever fallen completely and helplessly in love with a pet.

Guest Post by Gwen Cooper
I was twenty-five years old, newly single, and flat broke the day my veterinarian called to tell me about the kitten in need of a home.

An orphaned, four-week-old stray had been abandoned at her office, she said, after a virulent eye infection had required the surgical removal of both of his eyes. The couple that had originally brought him in no longer wanted him nor did any of the people on her adoption list, not even the ones who had expressed a specific interest in adopting a handicapped cat. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to face this particular handicap. I was her last call, the last possibility she could think of, before…

She didn’t finish her sentence, and she didn’t have to. I knew there was almost no chance that an eyeless kitten would be adopted from a shelter before his time ran out.

I had two cats already. The three of us were sleeping in a friend’s spare bedroom while I tried to put my life back together, having moved only a few months earlier from the home I’d shared for three years with the boyfriend I’d just broken up with.

It was, to say the least, far from being an opportune moment to consider adopting a third cat—especially one with special needs who might, for all I knew, require a level of care and attention more intensive than what I could realistically offer.

Still, I hung up the phone having agreed to meet him. Truth be told, I was in tears by the end of my vet’s story. Although I was sure I knew that ultimately I’d have to say “no,” I didn’t have the heart to say it right then.

The following afternoon found me at my vet’s office, standing in an exam room and looking into a small, lidless plastic box that held the kitten. He’s so tiny, was my first thought. Both of my cats had been almost this young when I’d taken them in, but I’d forgotten how absolutely tiny a four-week-old kitten is. He couldn’t have weighed more than a few ounces. He had curled himself up into a miniature sphere in the farthest corner of the box, a fuzzy softball that would have fit easily into the palm of my hand. His fur was all black, and it had that static-electricity fluffiness that very small kittens have, as if their fur has actively rebelled against the notion of lying flat. Where his eyes had been were two tiny stitches, and around his neck was one of those plastic cones they put on pets to keep them from scratching stitches out.

“Hey there,” I said softly. I scrunched down a bit, so my voice would come from the kitten’s level and not sound too booming or scary. “Hey, little guy.”

The black fuzzball in the corner of the box uncurled itself and stood up hesitantly. I tentatively reached a hand—a hand that suddenly seemed monstrous in its size—into the box and lightly scratched the bottom of it. The kitten walked slowly toward the sound, his head bobbing uncertainly under the weight of the plastic cone. His nose bumped against one of my fingers, and he sniffed it curiously.

I glanced up at my vet, who said, “You can pick him up if you want to.”

I lifted him carefully, cradling him just below my chest with one hand supporting his bottom and the other around his chest and front legs. “Hi, little boy,” I whispered.

At the sound of my voice, he turned himself around and reached up to my left shoulder with his front paws; they were so small, they sank between the cables of the light cotton sweater I was wearing. He tried to rub his face against mine, although all I felt was plastic against my cheek. Then he started to purr. The cone funneled the sound until it was so loud, he sounded like an improbably small motor.

I had expected that, having no eyes, he would be incapable of conveying much expression—and it occurred to me that this, perhaps, was the secret fear of the people who’d refused to adopt him. A pet whose face couldn’t register love, couldn’t reflect emotion, might always feel like a stranger in your home.

As I held him, though, I realized that it isn’t the eyes that tell you how someone is feeling or what they’re thinking. It’s the muscles around the eyes, which pull the corners up or push them down, crinkle them at the edges to convey amusement or narrow them into slits indicating anger.

This kitten didn’t have his eyes anymore, but the muscles around them had been left intact. And I could tell, from the shape the muscles were taking, that if he’d had eyelids they would have been half-closed in an expression eminently familiar to me from my other two cats. It was an expression of utter contentment. The ease with which he slipped into it suggested that, despite everything he’d already been through—despite every reason he’d had to expect the opposite—in the depths of his kitten-y little soul, he’d always known there would be a place where he could feel completely warm and secure.

And now, at last, he’d found it.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I put him gently back into his box, then rooted around in my purse for a tissue. “Wrap him up, I’m taking him home.”

Occasionally, somebody will ask me why I decided to adopt Homer. Most people assume it was because he was blind and helpless, because if I hadn’t taken him nobody else would.

But the truth is, I saw something that day in an eyeless kitten—I saw an innate optimism and happiness, a willingness to greet new people with joy and warmth—that I would never have expected to see in anyone who’d been through the ordeals he had. And I adopted him because when you think you see something so fundamentally worthwhile in someone else, you don’t look for the reasons—like bad timing or a negative bank balance—that might keep it out of your life. You commit to being strong enough to build your life around it, no matter what.

I decided to name him Homer.

About the Author:
Gwen Cooper is the author of the novel Diary of a South Beach Party Girl. A Miami native, she spent five years working in nonprofit administration, marketing, and fundraising. She coordinated volunteer activities on behalf of organizations such as Pet Rescue, the Miami Lighthouse for the Blind, the Miami Rescue Mission, and His House Children’s Home. In conjunction with Hands on Miami and Barnes & Noble, Gwen initiated Reading Pen Pals, an elementary school-based-literacy program in Miami’s Little Haiti. Gwen currently lives in Manhattan with her husband, Laurence, and her three perfect cats—Scarlett, Vashti, and Homer, who aren’t impressed with any of it. Visit Gwen Cooper’s

To Whoever Gets My Dog – A Story of a Hero and his Dog

Black Labrador Retriever

This story is in honor of all our men and women in the armed forces for the great job they do in service to our country, the United States of America and for those canine companions who provide unconditional love and wait for them to return. This story as far as I know doesn’t have an author, it was in one of my writer’s groups, but I wish I could claim that I had written the story. It truly is a lovable story of a hero and his dog.

Enjoy!
Rebecca

To Whoever Gets My Dog
(author unknown)

They told me the big black Lab’s name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, and the people really friendly..

I’d only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn’t hurt. Give me someone to talk to.

And I had just seen Reggie’s advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn’t look like “Lab people,” whatever that meant. They must’ve thought I did.

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn’t really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.

For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls – he wouldn’t go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I didn’t really think he’d need all his old stuff, that I’d get him new things once he settled in. but it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn’t going to.

I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like “sit” and “stay” and “come” and “heel,” and he’d follow them – when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen when I called his name – sure, he’d look in my direction after the fourth of fifth time I said it, but then he’d just go back to doing whatever. When I’d ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.

This just wasn’t going to work. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell.

The friction got so bad that I couldn’t wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cellphone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, that the “damn dog probably hid it on me.”

Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the shelter’s number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter.. I tossed the pad in Reggie’s direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I’d seen since bringing him home. But then I called, “Hey, Reggie, you like that Come here and I’ll give you a treat.” Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction – maybe “glared” is more accurate – and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down with his back to me.

Well, that’s not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number.

But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that, too.

“Okay, Reggie,” I said out loud, “let’s see if your previous owner has any advice.”…. …..

“To Whoever Gets My Dog:

Well, I can’t say that I’m happy you’re reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie’s new owner.

I’m not even happy writing it. If you’re reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time… it’s like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong… which is why I have to go to try to make it right.

So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls… the more the merrier.

Sometimes I think he’s part squirrel, the way he hordes them.

He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn’t done it yet.

Doesn’t matter where you throw them, he’ll bound after it, so be careful – really don’t do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.

Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I’ll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones – “sit,” “stay,” “come,” “heel.” He knows hand signals:

“back” to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and “over” if you put your hand out right or left. “Shake” for shaking water off, and “paw” for a high-five. He does “down” when he feels like lying down – I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows “ball” and “food” and “bone” and “treat” like nobody’s business.

I trained Reggie with small food treats.
Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening.

Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.

He’s up on his shots.

Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they’ll make sure to send you reminders for when he’s due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet.

Good luck getting him in the car – I don’t know how he knows when it’s time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time.

I’ve never been married, so it’s only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He’s gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn’t bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.

Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new. And that’s why I need to share one more bit of info with you….

His name’s not Reggie.

I don’t know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He’s a smart dog, he’ll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. but I just couldn’t bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I’d never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything’s fine. But if someone else is reading it, well… well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It’ll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you’ll even notice a change in his demeanor if he’s been giving you problems.

His real name is Tank. Because that is what I drive.

Again, if you’re reading this and you’re from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldn’t make “Reggie” available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could’ve left Tank with… and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call the shelter… in the “event”… to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he’d do it personally. And if you’re reading this, then he made good on his word.

Well, this letter is getting to downright depressing, even though, frankly, I’m just writing it for my dog. I couldn’t imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family. but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family..

And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me.

That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things… and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that’s enough.

I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter.

I don’t think I’ll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I’ll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank.

Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight – every night – from me.”

Thank you, Paul Mallory

I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.

“Hey, Tank,” I said quietly.

The dog’s head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright. “C’mere boy.”

He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor.. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn’t heard in months.

“Tank,” I whispered. His tail swished.

I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.

“It’s me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me.” Tank reached up and licked my cheek. “So whatdaya say we play some ball His ears perked again.

“Yeah Ball You like that Ball ”

Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room. And when he came back……he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

Cool Cat Advice to Bernie Madoff

from the voice of Sassy the Cat

Bernie Madoff the career criminal recently got handed the stiffest sentence for big time white collar crime, 150 years in prison because of greed and over confidence and swindling Americans out of 65 billion dollars of their investment money.

Madoff, who once rubbed elbows with millionaires will now be sharing a prison yard with drug dealers and gangsters.

Bernie Baby, greed did you in. Did you really need all that wealth? Listen carefully while I give you some tips on how to be a cool cat.

A cool cat like me would have made due with less, but always made it seem like I was deprived and needed more to survive.

A cool cat never brags about their catch. You’d never find me flaunting my bird catch in the face of other cats,

A cool cat approaches thing cunning and stealth – watching and waiting for when the time is right and then we make our humans feel sorry for us and we usually get what we want and more.

This cool cat has one more thing to say – Bernie, are you listening? While I have never lived the life of luxury like you did and although I sleep in the family garage, my cell is still bigger than yours.

Enjoy yourself!

Bonding with Animals – A Precious Relationship Part 3

Dear Reader,

Today is Part 3  of My Relationship with my Pets at Long Relationships.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like without dogs and I can’t. Oh, my yard would have a few more trees and be minus a few big holes that Spencer has dug. There would be less hair from Tasha shedding and less dog chores to do, but my heart would not be as full of love for the dogs that have given me unconditional love for years. 

http://www.longrelationships.com/guest-rebecca-camarena-bonding-with-animals/

 

I want to thank everyone who stopped here to visit this week and those who read my posts at Long Relationships. Thanks for all your comments and encouragement.

 

Enjoy!

 

Rebecca

Cat Love – Sassy the Cat, My Constant Companion

 

 

 

 

 

 (by Rebecca)
You never know much your heart can expand to love another animal until the need arises. When my cat, Sassy entered my life I had not thought of having a cat and was allergic to them so imagine my surprise and dismay when this stray cat that I had never seen before was sitting on my front porch. Feed her was what I did and she never left.
http://www.longrelationships.com/guest-rebecca-camarena-cat-love

http://www.longrelationships.com

Spencer and Me, My Faithful Companion

I was offered a great opportunity to guest post at Long Relationship about the relationships with my pets. Today’s guest post is about Spencer and Me, My Faithful Companion.

When I bought a dog after buying a house, I naturally assumed that I could get a loving dog that would sit at my feet while I spent hours at my desk writing. I was unaware that a relationship with a dog required training, perseverance and patience. My childhood family dog was shared by everyone and he never graced us with his cheerful personality. So when I brought home my German Shepherd lab mix home, we named him Spencer and he was going to be my companion.

Spencer was as loving as he was disobedient. The disobedient part seemed to start from the minute we brought him home. Read more here; http://www.longrelationships.com/guest-rebecca-camarena-spencer-and-me/comment-page-1/#comment-52980

To Be or Not To Be a Bratty Kitty

Sassy the Cat

(from the voice of Sassy the cat)

Mom says I’ve been a terrible brat last week and I should behave myself. Gee! I don’t think I’ve been that much brattier than my normal self. I lost the bell that hangs around my neck and I sure like having the advantage of creeping up behind my humans and giving them a “Meow” and watching them jump.

I can walk all over the house without tipping off those stupid dogs that I’m coming. The one dog, Tasha had trained herself to bark at the sound of the bell even if she wasn’t able to see me. A few times this week my humans have found me sitting on the coffee table or walking across the piano keys playing my own kind of music. I even snuck under mom’s bed and slept for hours and they went about their conversation not knowing I was there. They were quite surprised when I crawled out from under the bed.

We had company one night and I was grooming my private parts in front of them. For that I got carried outside and I got carried outside again when I walked across mom’s desk and the laptop sounded an alarm. Why do they keep putting me outside?

But I did have the best lunch this week. Now, I never get to eat lunch because mom’s not home to feed me, but the oldest girl was home and she made herself tuna on crackers and then left the room. There was the tuna sitting on a plate on the couch and I wanted it so badly. I made sure she was gone then I pounced on the couch and was eating the tuna when she returned. Of course, she had to call Mom at work and tell her all about it. I heard mom laughing on the phone so I knew she thought that stunt was cute.

That was my week, what did you do? Do you think I’ve been a bratty kitty?

Vote for Sassy the Cat to be California’s First Kitty

(from the voice of Sassy the Cat)

By now everyone knows that the first family of the United States – the President’s family- got their treasured dog. What’s wrong with these humans? Why didn’t they pick a cat? Why didn’t they pick me? I would have been the perfect First Kitty. I don’t chase mice, I sleep all night, I’m quiet and I can live the life of luxury, eating gourmet cat food and sleeping in the First Family’s quarters rather instead of my current room – the garage.

Instead, the first family picked a snot nose yappy Portuguese Water Dog that can’t even cover his own poop. I hear the top of his dog house has a sign that reads, “Summa Canum” which is Latin for “Top Dog.” Did you get a load of his name? BO – the same initials as his human father, President Barack Obama. I guess that man thinks highly of himself by naming his stupid dog after himself, although, they claim they picked the name from the singer, Bo Didley. How stupid do they think I am to believe that one?

But answer me this how long do I have to wait to be the first kitty of anything? Well, I heard the former governor of California, Jerry Brown wants to run for Governor next year.

Former California Governor Jerry Brown

He was the 34th Governor of California and held office from 1975 – 1983. I wonder if he’ll make me first kitty of California.

Will you help me campaign to be First Kitty? You could be my campaign manager. If I get enough yes votes maybe we can convince mom to let me be first kitty and enjoy the life of luxury.

**Should Sassy the Cat be the First Kitty in the California Governor’s Mansion? Vote yes or no on the poll. The Link to the poll is at the bottom of this post in the first comment. By clicking on this it will take you to the site that hosts the poll.

Spencer the Dog Steals the Spotlight

 

 

 

 

(from the voice of Spencer the dog)

 

 

 

 

(from the voice of Tasha the dog)

 

“Today, Spencer I’m totally bummed.” grumbled Tasha.

“Why is that?” asks Spencer.

“According to 2008 American Kennel Club the Labrador was once again in First Place as the most popular breed of dogs for 18 years. I don’t understand why the German Shepherd came in third when we are loyal, loving and very protective. Labs are incorrigible, undisciplined and looney. Or maybe that’s just you since you’re a half breed.” said Tasha.

“Hey, don’t be picking on my lineage, I can’t help who my parents were. Don’t forget labs are loyal.” added Spencer

“Well, so am I, and I wouldn’t let anything happen to mom or the little one. I never let them out of my sight.” admitted Tasha.

“Well, what can I say, Tasha. Labs are just a little more superior. Better luck next year.” said Spencer teasingly.

2008 AKC Registration Rankings
1. Labrador Retriever
2. Yorshire Terrier
3. German Shepherd Dog
4. Golden Retriever
5. Beagle
6. Boxer
7. Dachshund
8. Bulldog
9. Poodle
10. Shih Tzu

All Dogs Go To Heaven – Spencer’s Buddy Passes

We think our pets will live forever and always be at our side. But, when they pass we feel an emptiness that sometimes can’t be filled. One of our very good blogging animal buddies also name Spencer passed away earlier this year, in February. Spencer the Golden Retriever was famous for his blog, The Adventures of Spencer about a retired L.A. movie star dog whose new career was a therapy dog. He was also known for holding three tennis balls in his mouth. His humans were superb in taking care of him and for blogging his adventures. They occasionally hosted other rescue retrievers at their house and Spencer took it in stride.

Spencer from the Adventures of Spencer was a city dog living in Los Angeles like the animals at Dogs Rule Cats Drool and although, our animals never got to meet except in cyberspace, I’m sure they would have gotten along like old friends.

The animals at Dogs Rule Cats Drool and me, their author extend our deepest sympathies to Spencer’s humans.

R.I.P. SPENCER