{"title":"Shop Homer","description":"\u003cp\u003eEverything Homer — from the blind wonder cat who changed the world. Signed books, cozy tees, and bundles for the cat lover in your life.\u003c\/p\u003e","products":[{"product_id":"love-saves-the-day-a-novel-1","title":"Love Saves the Day: A Novel (Paperback)","description":"\u003ch2\u003e\u003cem\u003eA story of cats, courage, music, and love...\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"This book is about finding your way, mending broken relationships, and doing it all with a feline by your side. It's become my favorite book and I recommend it highly.\" \u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cspan\u003e-Dolores, Amazon Reviewer\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch3\u003eContinue reading if you like:\u003c\/h3\u003e\n\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eFeline wisdom\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eUplifting Messages\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eMothers and daughters\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eHappy Endings\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e“Prudence [is a] sassy but sensitive feline heroine.”—\u003cem\u003eTime\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e“Unforgettably moving . . . a hard one to put down.”—\u003cem\u003eModern Cat\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e“If you are the Most Important Person to a cat, you will hold them much tighter by the book’s end.”—The Vancouver \u003cem\u003eSun\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cstyle\u003e\n.custom-buy-now-button {\n    display: inline-block;\n    background-color: #2196F3; \/* Button color matching the theme *\/\n    color: white;\n    padding: 15px 25px;\n    text-decoration: none;\n    font-weight: bold;\n    border-radius: 5px;\n    margin-top: 20px;\n    box-shadow: 0px 4px 6px rgba(0,0,0,0.1); \/* Adds a subtle shadow *\/\n    text-align: center;\n    cursor: pointer;\n}\n\u003c\/style\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"max-width: 800px; margin: 20px auto; border: 2px solid #D04C40; border-radius: 10px; box-shadow: 0 4px 10px rgba(0,0,0,0.1); overflow: hidden; font-family: 'Merriweather', serif; background-color: #f8f9fa;\"\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"max-height: 600px; overflow-y: auto; padding: 20px;\"\u003e\n\u003ch2 style=\"margin-top: 0; color: #d04c40; font-size: 24px;\"\u003eSample Chapter\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003c!-- Sample Chapter Text --\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThere are two ways humans have of not telling the truth. The first used to be hard for me to understand because it doesn’t come with any of the usual signs of not-truth-telling. Like the time Sarah called my white paws “socks.” Look at your adorable little socks, she said. Socks are what humans wear on their feet to make them more like cats’ paws. But my paws are already padded and soft, and I can’t imagine any self-respecting cat tolerating something as silly as socks for very long.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eSo at first I thought Sarah was trying to trick me by saying something that wasn’t true. Like the time she took me to the Bad Place and said, Don’t worry, they’re going to make you healthy and strong. I knew from the tightness in her voice when she put me into my carrier that some betrayal was coming. And it turned out I was right. They stabbed me with sharp things there and forced me to hold still while human fingers poked into every part of my body, even my mouth.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eWhen it was all over, the lady who did it put me back into my carrier and told Sarah, Prudence has such cute white socks! She was smiling and calm when she said it, so I knew she wasn’t trying to trick Sarah like Sarah had tried to trick me about going there in the first place. I thought maybe I should lick my paws or do something to show them that these were my real feet, not the fake feet humans put on before they go outside. I thought that maybe humans weren’t as smart as cats and wouldn’t understand such subtle distinctions unless they were pointed out.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThat was when I was very young, just a kitten, really—back when I first came to live with Sarah. Now I know that humans sometimes best understand the truth of things if they come at it indirectly. Like how sometimes the best way to catch a mouse that’s right in front of you is to back up a bit before you pounce.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eAnd later at home, looking at my reflection in Sarah’s mirror (once I realized it wasn’t some other cat who was trying to take my home away from me), I saw how the bottoms of my legs did look a bit like the socks Sarah sometimes wears. Still, to say that they were socks and not that they looked like socks was clearly untrue.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThe other way humans have of not telling the truth is when they’re trying to trick one another outright. Like when Laura visits and says, I’m sorry I haven’t been here in such a long time, Mom, I really wanted to come sooner… and it’s obvious, by the way her face turns light pink and her shoulders tense, that what she really means is she never wants to come here. And Sarah says, Oh, of course, I understand, when you can tell by the way her voice gets higher and her eyebrows scrunch up that she doesn’t understand at all.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eI used to wonder where the rest of Laura’s littermates were and how come they never came over to see us. But I don’t think Laura has any littermates. Maybe humans have smaller litters than cats, or maybe something happened to the others. After all, I used to have littermates, too. But that was a long time ago. Before I found Sarah.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eIt’s because of music that I adopted Sarah. This was when I was very little and had been living outside with my littermates. We were running away from some rats one day, which are the most disgusting creatures in the whole world. They have horrible long teeth and claws, and they smell bad, and if they’re not chasing you to hurt you then they’re trying to steal whatever bits of food you’ve managed to find.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThen it started to rain—a huge, terrifying thunderstorm that I was sure would drown every living thing that couldn’t find a hiding place. My littermates and I, between running from the rats and then trying to hide from the rain, got separated. I ended up tucking myself under a broken cement block in a big empty lot. I was scared to be alone for the first time in my life, and started mewing in the hope my littermates would hear me and come find me.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eInstead, Sarah found me. Of course, I didn’t know she was Sarah then. I just knew she was a human—taller than most of them, with brown hair to her shoulders. She looked older than a lot of the humans who live in Lower East Side, but not really old.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eUsually, I’m good at staying hidden from humans when I don’t want them to find me. Most people would walk right past my hiding places without ever seeing me. I don’t think Sarah would have seen me, either, except that she stopped in front of the lot and stared at it for a long time. She stared so long that the clouds went away and the sun came out, and that’s when she spotted my hiding place.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eI thought she was just going to walk away and leave me alone. Instead, she came closer and squatted down to hold out her hand to me. But I’d never been touched by a human before and didn’t trust any of them. Plus, I couldn’t understand what she was saying because I didn’t understand human language back then. I backed up until I fell into a puddle, shivering at how cold the rainwater made my fur.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eAnd that’s when Sarah started singing. It was the first time I’d ever heard music—almost everything I’d heard until then were ugly and scary sounds, like machines, and things shattering on the sidewalk, or humans yelling at my littermates and me when they chased us away.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eSarah’s music was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. I’d seen beautiful things before, like the plates of perfect food that people ate at outside tables in warm weather. Or the shady grass under trees in the park that humans go to, which meant my littermates and I could do nothing but hide from the humans and look with longing at how pretty the sunlight was and how cool the shade looked.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eBut when Sarah sang, it was the first time something was beautiful just for me. Sarah’s music was my beautiful thing, and nobody was going to chase me away from it or try to take it from me.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eI couldn’t understand the words she was singing, but there were two words her song kept saying: Dear Prudence. She sang Dear Prudence right to me like it was my name. And it turns out Prudence was my name. I just didn’t know it yet.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eBut Sarah knew it all along. That’s how I knew I could trust her, even though she was a human. I decided then and there to adopt her, because it was clear we were supposed to be together.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e","brand":"Gwen Cooper","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":45079469064366,"sku":"9798986772295","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0645\/0030\/1998\/files\/BookBrushImage11675.png?v=1767544232"},{"product_id":"homer-paperback-bundle-global","title":"The HOMER Paperback Bundle (Homer Books #1 - #4)","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\"This memoir about adopting a special-needs kitten teaches that sometimes in life, you have to take a blind leap.\"\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e- People magazine\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch3\u003eContinue reading if you like:\u003c\/h3\u003e\n\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eHeartwarming Animal Stories\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eUplifting Messages\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eBravery and Courage\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eHappy Endings!\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBooks Included in this Bundle:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan\u003e🐾 Homer's Odyssey\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan\u003e🐾 Homer - The Ninth Life of a Blind Wonder Cat\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan\u003e🐾 Homer Returns (\u003cspan style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"\u003eOnly\u003c\/span\u003e available as part of this bundle!)\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan\u003e🐾 Spray Anything\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\"\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eHomer’s Odyssey\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e is not just a book about a blind cat, it’s a testament to the power of love and resilience. Gwen Cooper’s narrative pulls you into a journey filled with heartwarming moments and incredible bravery. Homer’s story will make you laugh, cry, and believe in the extraordinary potential within all of us.\" \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e- USA Today\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch2\u003e\u003c!----\u003e\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"max-width: 800px; margin: 20px auto; border: 2px solid #D04C40; border-radius: 10px; box-shadow: 0 4px 10px rgba(0,0,0,0.1); overflow: hidden; font-family: 'Merriweather', serif; background-color: #f8f9fa;\"\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"max-height: 600px; overflow-y: auto; padding: 20px;\"\u003e\n\u003ch2 style=\"margin-top: 0; color: #d04c40; font-size: 24px;\"\u003eSample Chapter\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003c!-- Sample Chapter Text --\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eYears ago, back when I still had only two cats, I was fond of saying that if I ever adopted a third I would name him Meow Tsetung and call him “The Chairman” for short.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003e“Don’t look at me like that, it’ll be cute,” I would insist when my friends regarded me as if I were a loon. “Little Chairman Meow.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThe joke was twofold: the name itself, and also the idea that I would adopt a third cat. I might never have taken the monumental step of adopting two except that I’d been living for three years with Jorge, the man I was sure I’d marry. We’d split up recently, and I had gained custody of our feline offspring—a sweet-tempered, fluffy white beauty named Vashti and a regal, moody gray tabby named Scarlett. I was grateful for my two girls every day, but also painfully aware of the potential complications they would create in my newly single life—not to mention my newly single finances.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThen one afternoon, a couple of months after Jorge and I broke up, I got a call from Patty, a young veterinarian only three years older than I was, who was the newest member at the practice that treated Scarlett and Vashti.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eAn orphaned, four-week-old stray kitten had been abandoned in her office, she said, after a virulent eye infection had required surgical removal of both his eyes. The couple who had originally brought him in didn’t want him. Nor did any of the people on her adoption list, not even the ones who had expressed a specific interest in adopting a handicapped cat. I was her last call, the last possibility she could think of before…\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eShe didn’t finish her sentence, and she didn’t have to. I knew there was almost no chance that an eyeless kitten would be adopted from a shelter before his time ran out.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eDon’t, warned the Greek chorus that lives inside my head. Yes, it’s sad, but you’re in no position to do anything about it.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eI’d always been an obsessive reader, a passionate lover of books, and I knew the kind of power words had over me. Pitting me against words like blind, abandoned, unwanted, and orphan was like sending someone armed with a toy rifle into trench warfare.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eStill, I recognized the wisdom of my inner Greek chorus, even if I couldn’t be as coolly analytical as it was. So I said, “I’ll come in and meet him.” I paused. “I’m not promising anything, though.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eI should note that, prior to this, I had never taken an I’ll meet him and we’ll see attitude when it came to pet adoption. It never occurred to me to meet the pet in question first, to see if he was “special” or whether there was some sort of unique bond between us. My philosophy when it came to pets was much like that of having children: You got what you got, and you loved them unconditionally regardless of whatever their personalities or flaws turned out to be. While I was growing up, my family adopted or fostered numerous dogs, almost all of whom were strays or had been abused in their previous homes. We’d had dogs who couldn’t be housebroken, dogs who chewed up carpeting and wallpaper, dogs who dug compulsively under fences or who even occasionally snapped when they were startled. My cats, Scarlett and Vashti, had been adopted a year apart from acquaintances who’d found them as six-week-old kittens—mange-ridden, half starved, and covered in fleas and sores—wandering the streets of Miami. I had committed to them sight unseen; the first time I’d met them had been the day they’d come to live with me.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eSo I felt more than a little dishonest, driving down to my vet’s office the following afternoon. Patty might not know it, but I knew myself well enough to understand that when I’d said, “I’ll come in and meet him,” what I’d meant was, I really don’t want a third cat right now, but I’d feel like a bad person if I gave you a straightforward no after hearing this cat’s story.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThe receptionist at the vet’s office greeted me warmly as I entered, summoning Patty, who popped her head out from a door behind the reception desk with a cheerful, “Come on back!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eWe reached the last examination room at the end of a narrow, wood-paneled corridor, and Patty opened the door for me. On the exam table was a lidless plastic box. I walked over and peered in.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eHe’s so tiny was my first thought. Both of my cats had been almost this young when I’d taken them in, but I’d forgotten how absolutely tiny a four-week-old kitten is. He couldn’t have weighed more than a few ounces. He had curled himself up in a miniature sphere in the farthest corner of the box, a fuzzy softball that would have fit easily into the palm of my hand. His fur was all black, and it had that static-electricity fluffiness that very small kittens have, as if their fur has actively rebelled against the notion of lying flat. Where his eyes had been were two tiny stitches, and around his neck was one of those plastic cones they put on pets to keep them from scratching stitches out.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003e“Hey there,” I said softly. I scrunched down a bit, so my voice would come from the kitten’s level and not sound too booming or scary. “Hey, little guy.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eThe black fuzzball in the corner of the box uncurled itself and stood up hesitantly. I tentatively reached a hand—a hand that suddenly seemed monstrous in size—into the box and lightly scratched the bottom of it. The kitten walked slowly toward the sound, his head bobbing uncertainly under the weight of the plastic cone. His nose bumped against one of my fingers, and he sniffed it curiously.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"color: #343a40; line-height: 1.8; font-size: 18px;\"\u003eI glanced up at Patty, who said, “You can pick him up if\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003c!----\u003e\n\u003cstyle\u003e\n.custom-buy-now-button {\n    display: inline-block;\n    background-color: #2196F3; \/* Button color matching the theme *\/\n    color: white;\n    padding: 15px 25px;\n    text-decoration: none;\n    font-weight: bold;\n    border-radius: 5px;\n    margin-top: 20px;\n    box-shadow: 0px 4px 6px rgba(0,0,0,0.1); \/* Adds a subtle shadow *\/\n    text-align: center;\n    cursor: pointer;\n}\u003c\/style\u003e","brand":"Gwen Cooper","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46121665265838,"sku":"9608784000011","price":42.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0645\/0030\/1998\/files\/new_bundle_pic.png?v=1767542830"},{"product_id":"you-only-live-nine-times-paperback","title":"You Only Live Nine Times (A \"Homer Whodunit\" Mystery #1)","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eHomer, the Real-Life \"Blind Wonder Cat,\" Returns in His Fiction Debut!\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSun-splashed Coacoochee, Florida—just ten minutes up the road from South Beach—is coming into its own in 1998. It’s the new favorite playground of models, millionaires, and workaday transplants like thirty-year-old Rachel Baum, who’s starting over with her three cats and a job at the town bookstore following a recent heartbreak.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBut beneath the glittering nightlife lies an intimate community of exclusive enclaves and whispered secrets that the travel brochures never reveal. When Coacoochee’s beautiful people start turning up murdered, Homer and his feline friends sniff out clues the cops have missed. Meanwhile, Rachel’s following her own leads, unaware her cats are already one step ahead. If only they could tell her what they know, they just might keep Rachel from becoming the killer’s next target.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFrom the New York Times bestselling author of \u003cstrong\u003e\u003cem\u003eHomer’s Odyssey: A Fearless Feline Tale\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e comes a charming, sun-kissed mystery where the best sleuths have paws. The \u003ci\u003epurr\u003c\/i\u003e-fect treat for longtime Homer fans and cozy mystery lovers alike, \u003cstrong\u003eYou Only Live Nine Times\u003c\/strong\u003e is twisty as the classic whodunits and even more mischievous than a basket of kittens.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"max-width: 800px; margin: 20px auto; border: 2px solid #D04C40; border-radius: 10px; box-shadow: 0 4px 10px rgba(0,0,0,0.1); overflow: hidden; font-family: 'Merriweather', serif; background-color: #f8f9fa;\"\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"max-height: 600px; overflow-y: auto; padding: 20px;\"\u003e\n\u003ch2 style=\"margin-top: 0; color: #d04c40; font-size: 24px;\"\u003eSample Chapter\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003c!-- Sample Chapter Text --\u003e\n\u003cp style=\"margin: 0in; line-height: 150%;\"\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eIt was ten-thirty a.m. exactly as Rachel Baum descended the wrought-iron staircase leading from the front door of her apartment to the back-office storeroom of Title Wave Books. Racing ahead of her were three cats—Scarlett, a plump and imperious gray tabby with a white chest and yellow-green eyes; Vashti, an emerald-eyed beauty with long, silky white fur and a gentle disposition; and, darting out in front of them all despite his blindness, a small and slender black cat named Homer. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"Stop pushing, Vashti!\"\u003c\/em\u003e Scarlett aimed a warning swipe at Vashti’s head with one white paw. \u003ci\u003e“You’ll knock Homer down!” \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eScarlett didn’t like to move fast. But that was only because, as far as she was concerned, Scarlett didn’t have to move for anybody. (It’s possible that Rachel and Scarlett had watched \u003cem\u003eGoodfellas\u003c\/em\u003e together one too many times.) Nevertheless, she hated being passed by her younger sister, and so perpetuated the fiction—despite all available evidence to the contrary—that Homer was apt to lose his balance if Vashti rushed ahead too quickly.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"As if!\"\u003c\/em\u003e Homer scoffed. To prove his point, he leapt from the step he currently occupied up to the staircase’s railing. Balancing there for a precarious moment, he propelled himself upward once again and smoothly glided through the air, landing neatly in the precise center of Rachel’s desk in the shop’s back room, located several feet to the right of the staircase.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"HA!\"\u003c\/em\u003e Homer crowed triumphantly. \u003ci\u003e“Nobody’s ever knocked me down, and nobody ever will!”\u003c\/i\u003e He twitched his ears in Scarlett’s direction, to hear whether she'd been impressed by this latest feat of derring-do. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eRachel had rescued both Scarlett and Vashti when they were less than two months old. She’d adopted Scarlett three years earlier at her mechanic’s garage, out of a cardboard box on which someone had scrawled Found Kittens. Vashti had been discovered a year after that in pitiable condition, wandering alone on the playground of the elementary school where Rachel’s mother worked. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eDr. Andi, the kindly veterinarian who’d treated Scarlett and Vashti, was the one who’d performed the emergency surgery a year ago when Homer was only two weeks old—surgery that had saved his life but left him permanently blind. The couple who’d first brought Homer to the vet decided they no longer wanted the tiny black foundling. After a week of posting flyers and making increasingly desperate phone calls, Dr. Andi had been unable to find anybody else who did.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eUntil she’d called Rachel. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eHomer had always been blind. He didn’t know what colors were, or what it meant to picture something in your mind. (He could smell and hear things in his mind, but he knew that wasn’t the same thing.) He had no frame of reference when humans remarked on how much smaller he was than other cats, or how much curlier Rachel’s dark hair was than most people’s, or how well the new cut she’d recently gotten showcased her dark-brown eyes. He’d never seen a face and had no idea what Rachel’s or anybody else’s might look like. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eNevertheless, Homer’s other senses were so finely honed, it was like he had his own kind of vision. Even Scarlett was impressed that Homer could smell the difference between a sealed can of tuna and a sealed can of tomato soup. When they’d still been living in Coral Gables—where Rachel had run a nonprofit dedicated to Everglades wildlife preservation—Homer had been able to pick out the sound of Rachel’s car heading home at the end of the day from among the hundreds of others whizzing down LeJeune Road, five whole blocks away. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eAnd even though Homer himself couldn’t have told anyone exactly how he did it, he had a way of sensing the walls and objects even in an unfamiliar room, and mapping it all out in his mind, that usually kept him from bumping into things.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e“Look at him go!” Title Wave customers would exclaim upon watching Homer leap from floor to counter without knocking anything over, or thread his way seamlessly through bookshelves and disappear like a shadow into the back storeroom.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e“It’s sad how easily humans are impressed,”\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e Scarlett often observed. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"You shouldn't goad Homer like that,\"\u003c\/em\u003e Vashti chided Scarlett now, swishing her glorious white plume of a tail—like an Arctic fox’s—in mild reproach.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"Don't worry about\u003c\/em\u003e me!\" Homer said. \u003ci\u003e“Anything Scarlett can do, I can do better!”\u003c\/i\u003e With that, he sprang effortlessly from the desktop to the back of Rachel’s computer chair. He perched there for a moment, with the jaunty air of a parrot on a pirate’s shoulder, before jumping to the floor. Rachel had just reached the foot of the stairs, and Homer strolled over casually to rub his head against her shins.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eTo Rachel, all the meowing and feline acrobatics conveyed nothing more than three cats who were impatient to start their day. “Take it easy, guys,” she told them. “I’m moving as fast as I can.” Pulling a keyring from the pocket of her jeans, she opened the locked storeroom door, and all four of them entered Title Wave Books. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eAs always, Rachel paused to savor the quiet peacefulness of the store before it opened. Sunlight streamed through tall, south-facing Art Deco windows, and the wave-patterned terrazzo floor that had given Title Wave its name seemed to undulate in varying shades of blue and sand. The faint smell of salt from the nearby ocean permeated everything. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eThe cheerful cat calendar tacked to the wall behind the register declared that it was Friday, October 2nd, 1998. Tonight Rachel was hosting a book signing for Danny Allen, the owner and head chef of Sabrosa, which was located only three blocks down trendy Hibiscus Road from Title Wave. His new cookbook, \u003cem\u003eMiami Spice\u003c\/em\u003e, had come out a week earlier, and copies were selling briskly thanks to a relentless round of local and national publicity.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eRachel knelt to give Homer a scritch under the chin. “Remind me to look for our black Sharpies later,” she told him, wishing as she so often did that her cats could actually talk to her.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eHomer was delighted with the attention and pressed his face into Rachel’s hand. \u003ci\u003e“I will!”\u003c\/i\u003e he promised. He didn’t know why Rachel couldn’t understand him when he talked, when all three cats had no problem understanding each other or the humans around them. “Humans are slow,” was what Scarlett always said, although sometimes she’d grudgingly concede that Rachel was better than most of them. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eAs she flipped on the central AC, Rachel was grateful, not for the first time, that her apartment upstairs had its own separate unit. It would have been hard to justify air conditioning the entire building twenty-four hours a day in the blistering Miami heat, and Rachel didn’t want to get on the wrong side of her mom’s friend Dorothea. A retired teacher who’d once taught sixth grade at the elementary school where Rachel’s mother still taught first, Dorothea Wilson had had the foresight to invest her pension in Coacoochee real estate back when it was still cheap. She owned Title Wave Books, along with the building that housed it, and she’d come through with a new job and a new home just when Rachel had desperately needed both.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eRachel was a thirty-year-old Miami native who’d never lived anywhere else. It was only six months ago that she’d moved east to Coacoochee from Miami’s Coral Gables, where she’d shared a home with the fiancé she was now no longer engaged to. A ten-minute drive up A1A from South Beach (assuming no traffic, which in Miami was never a safe assumption), and a world away from Coral Gables, Coacoochee was a sun-swept spot right on the Atlantic Ocean.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eMeasuring two square miles in its entirety, Coacoochee was the very definition of a small town, albeit one that could hardly be described as “sleepy.” For most of Rachel’s youth, Coacoochee had been nothing more than a collection of dilapidated Art Deco buildings where, some thirty years earlier, entertainers who’d been famous during her mother’s youth had put on extravagant shows at the big hotels. Changing tastes and decades of neglect had left the town moldering into decay, its once-gorgeous Deco apartments mostly occupied by recent immigrants and broke retirees who couldn’t afford anything fancier. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eThen the Eighties TV show \u003cem\u003eMiami Vice\u003c\/em\u003e had persuaded the rest of America there was still a hint of glamour to be found in South Florida. Artists and adventure seekers had flocked to Coacoochee, lovingly restored its shops and hotels, opened restaurants and nightclubs, and put the town back on the celebrity radar. These days, Coacoochee was practically overrun by the beautiful crowd. As Isabella Stuart, Coacoochee’s best-known gossip columnist, liked to say, it had become a playground for the genetically blessed.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eIt was also filled with plenty of the workaday types, like Rachel, who kept the whole thing running.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eRachel switched on the overhead track lights and got a pot of coffee started in the small café, carefully arranging muffins, scones, and croissants—delivered fresh that morning from Butterflake Bakery—in the display case. Homer, in the meantime, positioned himself atop the Local Authors display table, which was closest to the front entrance. The moment when the first customer of the day entered, and Title Wave’s front door opened onto Hibiscus Road, was always Homer’s favorite moment of the morning. He waited for it now—tail flicking, ears pricked, every ounce of him straining at attention. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eHibiscus Road was an open-air pedestrian mall that stretched twelve city blocks east to west, from the Oceanside Drive boardwalk at one end all the way down to apartment-lined Jacaranda Drive at the other. It was a vibrant blend of Mediterranean Revival, Midcentury Modern, and Nautical Moderne architecture, lined with restaurants, art galleries, eclectic shops, jazz clubs, nightclubs, a performance theater, and Coacoochee’s last remaining cigar store, where elderly Cuban men in colorful guayaberas gathered to sit outside and play dominoes over medianoche sandwiches. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eMinutes after Rachel had unbolted the front door and flipped the Closed sign to Open, the door swung wide with the day’s first customer and a cacophony of aromas from Hibiscus Road tumbled in. Homer smelled the tang of seaweed and salt water mingled with the sweetness of citrus blossoms from sidewalk planters; the woodsy fragrance of the royal palms that lined Hibiscus Road and the heady touch-up paint that city workers dabbed as needed on curbs and benches every morning; the fake-coconut smell of tourists drenched in sunscreen on their way to the beach, and the floral perfume of locals on their way to work; a profusion of exotic spices spilling from the back doors of trendy restaurants that wouldn’t open their front doors until later in the day.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eThreading through it all: the aroma of the books around him, the fresh coffee brewing in the store’s café—and, most importantly, the reassuringly familiar scent of Rachel herself.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003eThe day’s first customer turned out to be Daisy Locarro, looking slightly the worse for wear but still undeniably stunning in what was clearly last night’s low-cut party dress. Originally from Palm Beach, Daisy had arrived in Coacoochee five years earlier for vaguely defined reasons. “Palm Beach was dull,” was what she was apt to say when anybody asked. Daisy always seemed to be working as a part-time assistant for this or that celebrity or Coacoochee notable, collecting gossip wherever she went. But the gigs never lasted long, and nobody was quite sure where she got the cash to finance her “party all night, sleep all day” lifestyle. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"Here comes trouble,\"\u003c\/em\u003e Vashti observed from her favorite overstuffed armchair in New Fiction.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"MsoNormal\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 18.0pt;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"Look at that dress she's not wearing,\"\u003c\/em\u003e Scarlett added from her sunny spot in the front display window, one of two that flanked the store’s recessed entrance.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e","brand":"Gwen Cooper Cat Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46740796866734,"sku":"9798989540174","price":14.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0645\/0030\/1998\/files\/paperback_afa7c8c1-e7d5-4107-b2ae-5673fa818640.png?v=1767541930"},{"product_id":"autographed-book-homer-tee","title":"Autographed Book \u0026 Homer Tee!","description":"\u003ch2\u003eThe Perfect Gift for Homer Fans\u003c\/h2\u003e\u003cp\u003eEverything you need to celebrate the blind wonder cat who stole the world's heart — in one beautiful bundle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003ch3\u003eWhat's Included:\u003c\/h3\u003e\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eA \u003cstrong\u003epersonally autographed copy of \u003cem\u003eHomer's Odyssey\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e — signed and inscribed by New York Times bestselling author Gwen Cooper\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eThe \u003cstrong\u003eClassic Homer Crewneck Tee\u003c\/strong\u003e featuring a bold black illustration of Homer himself\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003ePlease note that bundled items ship separately.\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eIf you'd like your book inscribed to someone other than yourself, please indicate the recipient's name in the order notes, or email gwen@gwencooper.com after you place your order.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003ch3\u003eAbout the Book\u003c\/h3\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eHomer's Odyssey\u003c\/em\u003e is the true story of a blind kitten rescued against all odds — and the fearless, joyful life he went on to live. A beloved #1 \u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/em\u003e bestseller, it has touched the hearts of millions of cat lovers around the world.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cblockquote\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"Touching... one not to miss.\"\u003c\/em\u003e — USA Today\u003c\/p\u003e\u003c\/blockquote\u003e\u003ch3\u003eAbout the Tee\u003c\/h3\u003e\u003cp\u003eSoft, comfortable, and made for everyday wear. 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