Homer
Homie's Story
Coonhounds don’t bark they bay!
His friends called Homie, short for Homer. He had many friends, some who never even met him personally. His reputation preceded him; he was kind of legendary.
Homer was adopted into our family in the spring of 2001 following a weekend visit to the Franklin County Animal Shelter. Anna was 4, Nick 6 and Quintin 9 years old. There was the typical chaos at the shelter that Saturday with the yipping and barking of many dogs echoing through the rows of kennels and cages. As we walked through the aisle, a little spotted hound caught our eyes. Reaching my finger through the cage to touch his nose, he lifted a paw for me to hold. We called this his “pretty paw” over the years, as he liked to hold hands. The tag on the cage read “Homer – Coonhound”, a name that seemed perfect, so we never considered changing it. We took him for a walk in the courtyard to get acquainted and it didn’t take long for him to win us over. After completing the adoption paperwork as we were ready to walk him out, the clerk handed me a business card for a dog psychologist because of the breed…what?
Homer had his unique personality and a few quarks, but we never called the psychologist. He often protested and backed talked when scolded or made to do something he didn’t want to do. He had a reputation for being a sandwich thief from an unattended table or uninitiated little kid. He was the occasional leg humper to the unsuspecting visitor, and a lifelong poop eater. In his prime he would run or jog as far as Tracey wanted to go.
He slowed down a bit as he got older and developed a heart murmur, but he was always willing to go for a jog. With his handsome good looks and charm, it didn’t take long for the boys to figure out he was the perfect wingman when trying to get a young lady’s attention. Anna thought of him as her third brother. He occasionally stuck his nose in another dog’s business and sometimes paid a heavy price, but we always patched him up he bounced back to his same ole’ self. It seemed he had nine lives as they say.
We always thought he was a beagle coonhound mix because of his markings, but a friend and neighbor who had been a breeder and dog show judge straightened us out and told us he was in fact an American English Coonhound. He was likely the runt of the litter explaining how he may have ended up at the shelter. Funny, the only thing he ever hunted was the squeaker in the new stuffed animal he got every Christmas. Boy he could sure drive you nuts during your favorite TV show until the squeaker came out.
Runt or not, he was a champ in our eyes and a treasured member of the family, always faithful and loving. Nothing kept him down until his 90 year old body in dog years started failing him and causing discomfort. He gave us a lot of joy over the past 15 ½ years. I believe he had a good and happy life right up to the end. We will place him next to the new pond under the new willow tree, as it just seems fitting. He will forever live in our hearts and memories. We love you Homie and we will sure miss you!
You’re a good boy.