Homer the Dog



I am Homer. My previous family left me in Edinburgh’s Seafield Cat & Dog Home when I was young. I was put in a cage. I was surrounded with angry, snarling, barking, fighting dogs. The noise was horrible. I was very afraid.

I was there a few days when a woman stopped at my cage. I was led out and she and a tall man put me in their car and took me to my new home. I knew I was loved. I was a long, lanky dog then and raced around Astley Ainslie hospital grounds – all damp grass and rhododendron bushes.

That was nine years ago. I live in France now on land surrounded by oak forests where I can smell wild boars. The chasseurs (I know some French words) drive up our steep hill three mornings a week with their barking gun dogs. Then the shooting starts.

My master and mistress have built the house themselves. My master spends too long at his desk. My mistress spends too much time writing on her laptop. I have to remind them to go for walks.

I am growing old now. My muzzle is grey and my legs are a bit stiff.  I’m a happy dog but I still get very very anxious if I’m left in the house so my mistress takes me everywhere with her. I wait in the car, and stare out of the window until she returns.