Life with Homer

Everything has changed since he came into my life.  I am calmer, more loving, better rested, less stressed.  I could go on and on. And we don't even sleep together! 

He waits in his Costco bed every morning until I get up.  Then, when he sees me he nearly collapses in  a full body wag the likes of which would be normally reserved for returning Iraq war veterns.   It is the 'Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy' dance to the tenth power. 

'Well, shits and giggles!  It's Mr. Wiggles!'  I cry, and the shimmying becomes a paw (and foot) patting dance. 

He watches attentively as I take a wee to make sure I don't fall into the toilet and need rescuing then we start our morning walk routine.  I have to make coffee and  pour myself a go cup, step into some shorts and a tee and don one of my Keith Haring hats, put his collar on (I often take it off in the house . . . I can only imagine how uncomfortable having that thing around your neck 24/7 must be), find a baggy for picking up poo, get my keys and take his leash from the bottom drawer. 

When he sees it come out, he gently hops up, putting his front pawas on my waist and waiting for me to locate the ring on his collar and clip him in.  Then we go to the front door  . . . and he sits down.

Homer has proven to be a very smart dog.  I didn't think so at first.  I guess it was his new home timidity that made him so tentative.  Now comfortable, he has leaped into learning like teenaged boy into pussy and astounds me nearly every day with what he's picked up.  He's learned how to:  sit, stay, shake, lay down, go to your bed, get down, wait, and of course, come when his name is called no matter what's going on around him.  This sitting at the door thing is new behavior.  We're trying to teach him to go to the door and sit when he wants to go out, so when we go for walks, he sits in front of every door between the condo and the street before it gets opened.  There are 4 doors and we're at the point that he races to get to each one and quickly sits down to get them open.  He hasn't quite gotten the connection between that and needing to pee, but it's just a matter of time.  I admit I made a mistake with him early on.  I took him for long walks several times a day.  I couldn't help it.  I was so proud . . . and I needed the exercise.  As a result, he got the message that he should conserve his pee during walks so that he would have enough to leave his calling card at every palm tree in Hillcrest.  I'm trying to teach a different elimination ethic now, so the morning and evening walks are always short -- ten minutes -- and cover the same one block territory.  He gets to winkle about 8 times and usually musters a poo in the last third of the course. 

There is such a ritual around peeing . . . endless sniffing and manuevering back and forth before the target before making that final release.  Each event is a work of performance art.  I never realized it before, I guess because I never had an urban dog who required walking, but there is a whole identification thing that goes on.  I believe Homer knows every dog in the neighborhood by pee scent.    Whenever he meets one on the street, the first activity is to sniff butts and weiners and match the scent.  It's like . . . 'Hi, there, greyhound . . . Oh, yes!  I know you!  You're peed on palms number 3, 8 and 11 this morning, right?  Nice to connect a face with the piddle.' 

Several times a week . . . ok; almost every day, we go to the dog park at Balboa Park.  It's just a few blocks away and it's one of several places in San Diego where dogs can frollic without leashes.  It's an amazing place.  At any given time there are 20 or so dogs of every size and shape, all getting along, all playing and having a good time.  I've never seen the first hint of a problem there.  The butt sniffing ritual is most intense at the park as everyone tries to place everyone else.  Eventually it all becomes too overwhelming and everyone agrees to be friends for life and just plays.  Oh, if only it were so easy for us.  Perhaps butt sniffing should replace handshaking . . . what dya think?

There is a place on our morning route where Homer likes to stop and eat a few blades of grass.  It's clover, actually, and he only wants a bite or two, but he wants it every morning.  I haven't figured out what that's all about but I bet it's something simple like:  the clover in this yard is particualrly tastey.  Or maybe that's how he stimulates his gastrointestinal tract to produce the poo that invariably follows 4 minutes and 27 seconds later.  I know sometimes I take a dump shortly after eating.  Perhaps there is a connection. 

After we turn the corner and are headed home, he usually finds a place to drop his green-brown nuggets.  It's always a quick process and usually the poo is well formed and hard enough to be easily picked up.  While he's in his squat, I take my baggie out of my pocket and put my hand inside.  When he's finished I reach down with the baggie and pick up the poo.  'Oh, thank you for that wonderful gift!' I always say.  Then, poo in bag covered hand, I turn the bag inside out and tie a knot in the top.  I finish the walk carrying my little bag of poo until I get to the dumpster at home. 

That's new behavior for me.  I never picked up poo before.  My dogs always had fenced yards in which to frollic and crap, and I always lived in places where natural processes like rain and growing grass just absorbed the stuff.  But it's different here in this dry world of concrete and asphalt.  If everyone left their stuff wherever it fell there'd be acres and acres of dog poo everywhere.  You simply have to pick up your pet's droppings.  And it's kinda funny when you think about it. 

I walk Homer through the village of Hillcrest regularly.  It's one of our long walks, taking probably 30 minutes.  There are always lots of people in the cafes and on the sidewalks: locals like us out doing our business and folks from the 'burbs who come in to gawk and eat.  And, there are lots of dogs being walked, too.  I looked up the other day and saw 4 dog owners doing their walk, each carrying their own little baggie of poo. 

When we walk Hillcrest, I usually put one of Homer's festive second collars on:  he's got the gay pride one that is a bushy harlequin clown collar in rainbow colors with sequins liberally applied. Threre's also his lime green feather boa when he's in one of his gender bending moods, and the obligatory bandana.  His is black which, if you remember the whole gay bandana thing from the 70s, means he's into heavy S&M, and has a Keith Haring barking dog patch on it.  He just got a San Diego Padres baseball cap but hasn't learned how to wear it, so it doesn't count. 

Dressed up or not people often stop to pet Homer and swoon over his good looks and pleasing personality.  He has a constant smile and lovely Cleopatra eyes (it's as if he's wearing heavy eyeliner and pulling it back around his face like Cher used to do).  But when he wears one of his special collars . . .well he's just the most popular dog in town. 

The other day when we made our way down 5th Avenue and by the bank where Homer usually makes a 'deposit,' we came upon a slightly stooped and shuffling Little Old Lady in a hat.  I turned when she reached out and touched my arm and my eyes immediately fixed on the half dozen wiry white hairs coming out of her chin.  'Thank you for letting him shiff,' she said.  She was very serious.  'Scuse me?'  I asked.  'Letting him sniff; Thank you for letting him sniff.  Most people are in such a hurry the dogs don't get a chance to sniff.'  And she shuffled on her way down the sidewalk.  The whole encounter was so surreal it took on great significance for me and haunts me to this day.  It was as if I was being given a message from God, as if this Little Old Lady had been sent that morning to deliver that message to me.  As a result, I will never rush Homer as he sniff, sniff, sniffs his way through our walk. 

As a condo dog, Homer spends most of his time indoors.  Often he's lazing in his bed or playing with one of his toys.  His first favorite toy was a stuffed kitty with a really silly expression on its face.  It was made to resist a dog's chewing, and took him about  three weeks to completely destroy.  Today his favorite is a large red Nylabone.  He'll chew that thing for hours -- which is really good for his teeth -- and it becomes a central part of our indoor fun as we play keep away and tug with it. 

At night, usually around 9, he'll slip into my office and into his bed.  Day is done and all dogs need their rest.  And that's where he'll be at 7am or so when I open my bedroom door and see him take that one long stretch and fall immediately into his full body wag.

'Well, Shits and Giggles!' I say.  'It's Mr. Wiggles.'