Homer, regal af
If my dog could talk I’m sure he’d have a lot to say. He’s a pretty vocal dog as is, with different sounds for different occasions or moods. His day is an amalgamation of barks, grunts, growls, huffs and puffs and ruffs, whines, chortles, howls, and baying. In the five years that I’ve known Homer, he’s made just about any and every sound a dog can make. What those sounds really mean, well that’s a whole other story. I tend to anthropomorphize his vocal displays as if he were some sort of anxious, hyperactive, man-child. Wait. Let’s be real. That is exactly what Homer is. Whenever he goes on a barking tyraid, or starts whining, there’s a brief moment of annoyance. Then I remember he’s a dog, and there’s no reason to be annoyed with a dog for being a dog.
His sense of smell is what drives him. Always with his nose to the ground, mouth and whiskers sweeping side-to-side like a Roomba on the fritz picking up any scent available. Or, with his snout up wafting the air, as if he were seeing animated odor trails from a Looney Toons scene. His floppy ears are meant to aide in the trapping of scents, but they also serve as satellites, transmitting the slightest audio vibrations straight to Homer’s brain. Though his nose and ears may lead him on many scattered journeys, it is his voice that defines how he feels about these daily adventures.
Homer gets quite boisterous while out patrolling the yard. He barks at children waiting for a school bus near the street corner or cutting through the neighborhood’s conjoining yards. Sometimes it’s the mail truck, or any other sort of truck, with a rumbling engine and backing up with that ear piercing beep, beep, beep. In these moments his barks ring out from deep within his chest, on loop until the trespasser is gone and the “threat” has subsided. Inside the house he is more docile, unless the smoke alarm goes off, or the garage door opens, or the doorbell rings, or an unfamiliar person comes over for the first time, or the vacuum comes within two feet of his personal space. These barks also barrel out from within his chest, but often with an almost sweet yet pitiful high pitched tinge to them. Never are they vicious barks, though I can understand how a person unlearned in the ways of Homer may construe it otherwise. I like to think he’s just saying “Hey!” over and over, and over again. Usually some solid pats on the head and any sort of acknowledgement towards Homer’s goodness will mitigate the onslaught of vocality.
Barking is common, standard fair for most any dog. The uniqueness of a dog’s voice comes out not when they bark, but rather in their moans, groans, and grunts. Homer doesn’t bark when he wants to go outside. Instead he trots to the door, sits, then turns his head slightly to look over his shoulder and lets out a gruff sigh. Of course Homer knows this only works if there is a human in the room.
Similarly, Homer knows when feeding time rolls around. He eats every morning around 7 a.m. and every evening around 7 p.m. Routine is good for everyone, but especially good for dogs. For a being with no concept of time, Homer’s biological clock is pin-point accurate. In the morning he isn’t so fussy, hunger can often be staved off by slumber. Dinner time is slightly different. Around 6:48 p.m. he’ll start to circle near his dog bowl, periodically checking to make sure he hasn’t somehow missed the food arriving. Once the pacing becomes to anxiety inducing, he usually opts to sit next to his bowl. This is when the chorus of groans and grunts begin. Low, steady lamentations of hunger reverberate from his mouth and nostrils as his front paws dance back and forth like pistons. I glare at him and he stops, only for a moment, then he restarts his song of suffering as quickly as I look away. More eye contact, met by more silence, then a quick high-pitched yip. I’ve met my match. I cave and grab his bowl.
The hunger induced yip is nothing like his dream-yip. Deep in sleep he lays on his side, muscles contracting, paws convulsing, eyes and cheeks twitching. What ever could he be dreaming about? Running through an open field with a pack of canine ancestors? Navigating a dark and mysterious forest on the trail of some magical scent? Is it a dream, or is it a nightmare? Is he being chased? Can dogs even have nightmares? No matter, he throws out these quick bursts of air that leave his mouth in a bubble of excitement. I much prefer these cute little yips to the alternative sleep sound. Snoring.
Homer sleeps a lot. It’s his primary function. When not sleeping, or eating/chewing, he looks to fill his day with the thrill of the chase. He is a hound dog after all. I mentioned his barking at neighborhood children and trucks, but that is small potatoes when compared to the ultimate prize. Squirrels! They nest in the trees, stealing morsels from bird feeders in the yard and scaring away the sweet song birds. Homer has made it his mission in life to rid the world of squirrels, so all the little birdies may eat and sing in peace. A noble fight indeed, but one full of failure and disappointment.
These squirrels are crafty. They bound from tree limb to tree limb with ease. They hear Homer long before they see him. A times it’s as if they are toying with him. He’ll chase one off to the west, while another comes in from the east. They’ll run atop the fence line and jump to a tree in the neighbors yard. Just when Homer thinks his job is done, they’ll scoot back along the fence to another part of the yard. It’s a real “Tom & Jerry” sort of dynamic. However, every now-and-again Homer traps a squirrel up in the maple tree that sits toward the middle of the yard. These squirrels are n00bs. They probably heard about the overflowing bird feeders from a friend and came to check on the situation without giving much thought to the stubborn Beagle patrolling the yard.
Once in the maple tree, the squirrel has nowhere to escape. They climb to the highest point and freeze, paralyzed with fear or possibly playing dead. It is now a war of attrition. If we don’t move, then he can’t see us. Oh, Homer sees and he lets the entire county know about it. He sits under that tree and barks until his cheeks bleed. He bays like only a Beagle can, notifying anyone who can hear to come and get that squirrel. He did his job! These standoffs can last anywhere from thirty minutes to several hours. I once saw Homer sit under that maple tree, yelling and screaming for four long hours. He only came inside because he lost his voice. He needed to slurp some water and re-up on lubricating his vocal chords. Once inside he sat and cried by the door, but I couldn’t let him back out there until I knew the squirrel was gone. I’d rather listen to Homer whine than have the neighbors file a noise complaint on my dog.
If you’re still reading this then you probably live with a dog of your own, or maybe you did at some point in the past (you’re definitely not a cat person). I’m sure you can point to any number of quirky noises your own dog makes on a regular basis. There are pros and cons of living with a dog, like any pet. They make a mess, eat things they shouldn’t, and generally require some level of responsibility beyond the norm. Yet, the joys of having a dog companion far outweigh the frustrations. Trying to interpret Homer’s many sounds and noises makes for some of the best parts of my day. He is a funny little guy, whether he’s trying or not. As annoying as his repetitive bark can get, there’s nothing better than coming home from work and hearing his excited yelps as he greets me. So, he can’t talk but he sure has a lot to say.