I also realized something else that night that I’d never thought about before—the deep chord that Homer’s Odyssey would strike in the animal-rescue community. Homer represented any number of cats who rescuers would cry themselves to sleep at night thinking about—cats who were sweet and friendly and loving, cats these rescuers worked with every day, and who they knew would make a wonderful companion to anyone lucky enough to adopt them. But cats (and dogs) who, nevertheless, were consistently passed over for adoption because they were blind, or deaf, or needed extra care for ongoing medical issues, or simply because they had aged out of kitten-hood and were now “too old.”
I wasn’t the only one who stood vindicated by the publication of Homer’s story. And, despite having cared for him for more than twelve years, I wasn’t even close to being the one who’d put in the most time and effort—who’d fought the most battles or broken her heart the most often—trying to prove that a special-needs animal was just as capable of loving and being loved as any other, and just as deserving of a chance.
Eight days after Homer’s Odyssey was published, I received two phone calls—one from Caitlin, and one from the in-house publicist my publisher had assigned to promote Homer’s Odyssey, both with the same exciting news. After only one week on sale, Homer’s Odyssey would debut at #14 on the following week’s New York Times Bestseller List.
Laurence and I celebrated with champagne that night, while Homer, Vashti, and Scarlett were treated to new catnip toys and Homer’s beloved deli turkey. When the New York Times Book Review in which Homer would be named was finally published, I saw that Homer’s Odyssey had been called out for special attention in the “Inside the List” feature that ran alongside it. “Homer’s Odyssey makes its first appearance on the list in 2,720 years,” the writer humorously observed, before adding, “Oh, wait! Gwen Cooper’s book is actually the story of a tiny blind wonder cat…”
THE NEXT FEW months were a whirlwind. Although I hadn’t been sent on an official book tour, I was invited to speak at shelters and at shelter fundraisers around the country, to advocate for the cause of special-needs animals and of rescue in general.
I hated leaving my three cats as often as I did, traveling more now than I had at any previous time in my life. But, then, I was now firmly self-employed, so when I was home I got to be home. My cats and I had never had so many uninterrupted hours in the day together as we did during the times when I wasn’t on the road. Homer would greet me with pure delight when I returned from a trip—happy I was back, of course, and also eager to make a thorough investigation of my suitcase and my person. Every engagement I traveled to included a tour through the shelter where I’d be speaking, along with plenty of cuddling opportunities with the cats that shelter cared for. No matter how thoroughly I showered before getting on a plane, the shoes I wore home and the bag containing clothing I’d worn while away reeked, from Homer’s perspective, of other cats. It could take hours for Homer to get through as exhaustive an inspection as he liked, until finally it was time to dump my suitcase contents into the laundry and get them ready for the next trip.
Best of all were the gifts I brought back for the cats. Everywhere I went, people sent me home with gifts for Homer, and I was touched by how many remembered to include Scarlett and Vashti as well—hand-crocheted balls stuffed with catnip, little satin-enclosed catnip pillows with each of the cats’ names embroidered on them, hand-knitted and hand-sewn kitty blankets, colorful new bowls for food and water, bags of treats, and noisy playthings, like crinkle balls, by the sack.
Of course it was really Homer, and Homer’s story, that everybody was interested in. People wanted to hear live accounts of the tales they’d read in the book, to know how Homer was adjusting to his newfound fame. But Homer couldn’t travel or deliver speeches himself, so I went as his proxy. I also did interviews with, and wrote articles for, animal-centric magazines and websites, encouraging the adoption of special-needs animals like Homer. As few “famous cats” as there were at the time, there had never (to my knowledge) been a famous special-needs cat, and so Homer became something of a “poster kitty” for the cause of adopting animals once thought unadoptable. I would eventually hear from people who wrote to say that Homer had inspired them to take a chance on a blind—or otherwise disabled—cat. I can honestly say that I’ve received no fewer than two hundred of these emails over the past few years, and they’re always the greatest letters I get.
I traveled to parts of the country I’d never seen in person before—the Deep South, Texas, the Heartland, the Pacific Northwest, the Rust Belt. I traveled from Minnesota to New Mexico, to Arizona during a heat wave so intense that I could literally feel my eyeballs grow warm when I stepped outside. The landscapes would change dramatically each time a plane I was on would land, as would the regional accents, the style of dress, and the local cuisine.
Yet certain things remained constant. I met people of all ages, sizes, religions, and ethnic backgrounds—people who likely would have disagreed vehemently with their counterparts in other regions on everything from politics to place settings (because one would surely consume Alabama hominy grits very differently than Seattle sushi). But the one thing everyone I met agreed about—passionately—was the cause of animal rescue. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve heard, over the last six years, say how much better they think animals are than people. But, personally, I think it’s that animals bring out the very best in people—until you can’t help but realize how ultimately insignificant the rest of the differences are.
Despite my hectic travel schedule of those few months—and despite the fact that those crazy days of video and promotional shoots were essentially over—“managing” Homer was still my full-time job. I had to answer his fan mail, oversee his social media presence, regretfully inform those who wrote to say that they would be vacationing in New York—and could they possibly drop by our place to meet Homer in person?—that, unfortunately, Homer wasn’t available for personal appearances. “As if Homer were another New York tourist attraction, like the Statue of Liberty,” I would say to Laurence.
And somebody had to write the thank-you notes for the many gifts Homer received in the mail—as various and plentiful as the gifts I brought home with me from trips. Scarlett and Vashti got their fair share of the bounty, and may, I think, have enjoyed it even more than Homer did. All the soft kitty blankets—that were just her size!—were a profound joy to Scarlett, who’d always loved anything plush and luxurious. To have something soft and warm to claim for her very own, small enough for her to guard from encroachment by the annoying other cats she was forced to live with, was a gift from above. And Vashti loved catnip even more than Homer did. People sent us catnip they’d grown themselves, on hobby farms or in backyard gardens, and the purity of this home-grown ‘nip seemed to make Homer, and especially Vashti, super relaxed and flippy.
For his part, Homer was most enamored of the boxes these gifts came in. He enjoyed them all so much that I couldn’t bear to take any away from him—until our living room looked as if we were moving. It was at this point that Laurence tactfully suggested that it might be time to throw at least a few of them away.
As it turned out, there were also quite a few younger readers of Homer’s Odyssey—elementary and middle-school children who were already passionate about animals, and for whom the message that different doesn’t mean bad carried more relevance even than it did for adults. One evening, long after the book had been published, a sixth-grade girl came to our apartment with her father, to meet and photograph Homer for an article about him she was writing for Time For Kids (Time magazine’s children’s imprint). She took such a grave, shy pleasure in his presence—and Homer was so very gentle with her in his rubbing and head-bonks—that I had to smile at seeing them together. But well before then I’d been hearing from children of about her age who were writing book reports about Homer and wanted me to answer questions they had about the book, or to know what kids like them could do for other special-needs animals. Sometimes they emailed so they could send me pictures of drawings they’d made of Homer, or of Homer-themed arts-and-crafts projects they’d created for school.