My Buddy Homer

Many of us share the role of grandparenthood. We know what it means to stretch ourselves for the sake of our children’s children. Sitting on the floor to build the train track takes new meaning (and so does getting up). Taking a walk to the creek may not be filled with as much worry for wet shoes, yet carrying the tired toddler on your hip on the way home might, shall we say, reawaken dormant back muscles. In other words, grandparenthood charts new territory with old knowing. 

But what about grand-dogs? Do they fall within the same realm of love?

I was scheduled to take care of my new grand-puppy for a weekend. On the day of my son’s departure, he called me in a little bit of panic. His dog, Homer (yes, that’s right, Homer Romer) had some “issues.” Belly issues in a puppy means there’s a potential for lots of “messes.” My son was worried. “Mom,” he said, “I don’t want to leave Homer with you if he’s waking you up in the middle of the night.”

I took a deep breath in remembrance. I recalled how many times my son woke me in the middle of the night; infant colic, a bad dream, stomach flu, or high school curfew violation. As I listened to my son’s concern for me, all I could do was smile.

“Don’t’ worry,” I told him, remembering that lack of sleep was a very small price to pay for loving. “Homer and I will be just fine.” 

The next thing I knew, I was in the parking lot of the veterinarian’s office in space #6. (Covid requires curb side, you know).  My son needed peace of mind that some kind of infection wasn’t going on. My hunch was that Homer was perfectly fine, but I was happy to oblige my son’s wishes. He was a new “parent” after all. 

“I just have a few questions regarding Homer’s history,” the vet tech asked in her animal loving voice. She was enthusiastic and clearly engaged in a job she was meant to do. I informed her I was merely the grandmother, but happy to answer anything I could.

“What type of food does Homer eat?”  Dry food, I’m guessing?

“Has Homer eaten anything strange?” Well, he’s a dog and spends a lot of time at the park, so maybe? 

“Exactly how old is Homer?” I’m not sure… somewhere between 2 and 3 months?

I was failing miserably as historian.

All I knew for sure was that Homer was pretty cute, and my son and his fiancé’s hearts had been hijacked by this little, rambunctious fur-ball.  As I waited in the car for results of Homer’s exam (which were quite normal), I smiled. Who would have thought grandparenthood would reach all the way to a vet parking lot, space #6?  

The weekend turned out to be just fine. Homer “explored” as any puppy would. The casualties were to be expected. Random socks will forever be mismatched or lost, and the gnawed channel changer is still functional. Best of all, Homer felt happy at Nona’s house. I became reacquainted as well with every square inch of my yard as Homer’s exploration reached far behind the bushes. 

What I loved the most, however, were those moments that sweet little Homer rested at my feet. The occasional down-time when nipping, jumping, pawing or leash-pulling were replaced by calm brought tender clarity to me. Homer (and many other pets I suspect) offers a remedy to everything that threatens to bring us down. His tail is constantly wagging and has absolutely no concept of what it means to socially distance. Homer has no awareness of Covid, and provided the antidote to isolation as evident by how often he rested atop my feet. 

So, the answer is yes. Grand-dogs do possess a special place in the world of grandparenthood. Homer and I solidified the beginning of a loving journey which I hope will last a very long time. Following his visit, I didn’t miss the paw prints on my kitchen floor, but I did miss feeling loved by my 4-legged weekend shadow. And just like with my grandchildren, I look forward to Homer’s next visit. Best news? I have an “in” with the vet just in case. Parking space “6” has Nona’s name written all over it.