Homer on the case, p.1
Homer on the Case, page 1
To Julia and Mason
—H. C.
Published by
PEACHTREE PUBLISHING COMPANY INC.
1700 Chattahoochee Avenue
Atlanta, Georgia 30318-2112
www.peachtree-online.com
Text and illustrations © 2021 by Henry Cole
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Edited by Kathy Landwehr
Design and composition by Adela Pons
The illustrations were rendered in pencil on paper
Printed in December 2020 by LSC Communications in Harrisonburg, VA.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-68263-254-3
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Tweleve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER ONE
At the risk of sounding clichéd, I’ll tell you that the fog I was flying through was thick as soup. And not like consommé, more like cream of cauliflower.
I know…you’re thinking just how would I, a typical homing pigeon, know about things like soups?
Because I pay attention, that’s how! I read things. Every day, in the newspaper. News! Weather! Advice columns! Recipes!
But I’ll explain that later.
Being a homing pigeon means lots of flying. Racing, then finding your way home. I can find my way back home through instinct alone, without any map or compass…just the one in my head.
And flying is serious business, especially in fog: I have to be careful.
I reduced my speed to 35 miles per hour, nearly half my normal racing speed, but even at reduced speeds things can loom suddenly out of dense clouds.
I veered left to miss colliding with the huge Bridgetown water tower. My wing tips were just a caterpillar’s length away from the sides of the iron tank. Close one, I thought.
With the tower behind me, I looked carefully for a slate-covered spire. In a flash it was there: St. Marco’s Church.
A starling gazed at me blankly from his perch on top of the lightning rod as I shot by. “Where’s the fire?” he snickered.
I just ignored him and zipped past. When you’re racing, seconds count.
I was really breathing heavily now. My pectoralis major was starting to burn. I set my beak to 7 degrees west of north and pitched quickly to the left, and just in time: the needlelike talons of a sharp-shinned hawk roared by, barely missing my chest muscles. I felt a sharp pain at my tail and an invisible push of air as I tumbled in space.
With no time to think, I maneuvered into a series of dives left, right, and down, and landed on a narrow ledge of an apartment building. I was hidden in the fog.
Two tail feathers—my own!—slowly drifted past. The hawk, once again a part of the gray mist, disappeared, disappointed.
“Luck was with me this time,” I whispered to myself. All three of my heart chambers were thumping wildly. I took a moment to cautiously look up, then down, left, and right…and then I took off again.
I passed over the tops of some trees, ghostly and vague down below. Keeler Park, I thought. Getting close. But dang it! I’m late! I knew my time wouldn’t be great, thanks to being sidetracked by the hawk.
Soon I saw the familiar red-brown brick of home appear. It was a five-story apartment building. Humans lived inside, but I lived on the top. I could make out my owner Otto down below on the roof. Grandad was standing with him as usual, smiling.
I folded my wings, and with one final thrust I plunged beak-first from the sky, swooping to my landing platform just as the gray-shrouded dawn was turning into a golden, summertime sunrise.
Also as usual, Otto had the gold pocket watch at the ready. I heard him calling even before I landed. “Atta way, Homer! You made it!” He smiled proudly as he clicked a button on the watch. Otto always gave me a hero’s welcome, as if I were a hero, not just another homing pigeon doing what I do best: coming home.
“How’d he do?” Grandad asked.
“Nineteen minutes! Last time was seventeen. Not your best time, Hom—Homer! Something happened to you! No wonder you’re two minutes behind your best time!” He picked me up and held me up to his chin, giving me tiny kisses, as if kisses would help me regrow tail feathers.
This was a little embarrassing, but Otto was prone to overreacting wherever I was concerned. Call it being overprotective. Or get mushy and call it love.
“Looks like Homer might’ve had a run-in with a hawk,” Grandad said. “And looks like it was a close one! But don’t worry, Otto. He’ll grow new tail feathers in no time.”
Otto looked alarmed. “Poor Homer,” he said. “Here: I’ve put down fresh newspaper, a little bit of cracked corn, and your favorite millet mix. Nice clean water. All for you.”
I heaved a big sigh and gazed gratefully at my rooftop world. It consisted of a large cage with three sides made of chicken wire and the back covered in wood planks to keep the north wind out. I had a cozy wooden box inside the cage to sleep in, lined with soft, sweet-smelling hay.
The cage had a huge swinging door that was almost always open. Otto kept it closed with a wooden peg at night, to keep the occasional city raccoon from getting in and stealing my food. But most of the time I was a free-ranging pigeon. I could come and go as I pleased. I think Otto wanted me to have a little freedom, and he trusted me to return to my rooftop. That’s one good thing about being a homing pigeon: we always know how to get back home.
I pecked hungrily at the food and gratefully let some of the water trickle down my throat.
Otto grabbed the pencil and clipboard that were kept hanging on a peg. I couldn’t help but notice how he always beamed proudly as he carefully recorded my flight times. Even times when I was a minute or two late.
Grandad noticed the cage door wide open. “You know, Otto, you really should keep that cage door closed, 24-7,” he said.
Otto gave me another gentle caress. “I know, Grandad. But Homer wouldn’t like being cooped up all day. He can come and go as he pleases. He knows where home is.”
Grandad gave a little grunt. “Well, he’s your pigeon, Otto. Your responsibility. What happens to Homer is on your shoulders. Just remember there are things like hawks out there.”
“I know.”
The two of them headed down the rooftop ladder. Otto gave me a wink. “See you later, Homer!” he called out.
I felt contented. I had flown well, I had avoided being ripped to shreds by a hawk, and now I had a crop full of cracked corn and millet.
I sighed and stretched my wings, then stepped across the freshly laid-out newspaper. Second only to a morning race, this was the part of the day I enjoyed the most: catching up on world events.
I usually started with the colorful pages. My favorite was a continuing story called Dick Tracy about a really smart detective.
Today Tracy was once again trying to foil some crooks. This time, some jewel thieves. The alarm bell over a store went CLANG! A voice bubble over Dick’s head said “This is the third jewelry store looted this week! I hope I solve this one before the next store is hit!”
I cooed contentedly. Dick Tracy was smart. He’d figure it out.
After I looked at the pages with the bright colors I began the serious stuff. I usually went from big headlines to smaller headlines, down each page, story by story. It seemed like the bigger the letters, the more important the story, at least to humans. And sometimes that didn’t make sense to me: a story about weapons got big letters, for example, but something about bird populations got tiny letters.
Anyway, I started my morning perusal of the news.
* * *
PRESIDENT OFFERS NEW BUDGET PLAN
* * *
Here we go again, I thought. Yet another new budget plan.
* * *
DRAMA IN THE MIDDLE EAST ESCALATES
* * *
“Enough with the drama!” I cooed.
The size of the headlines—and apparently the importance of the news—got smaller and smaller as I walked down and across the pages.
* * *
YANKEES SLAM RED SOX 2–1
* * *
* * *
MISS POWELL WEDS MR. MCGEE
* * *
So Miss Powell and Mr. McGee finally got married, I thought absently, glancing at the picture of the newlyweds. I remember their engagement photo. Gee, they look happy…but then again, they always put happy-looking pictures on this page.
There were the usual ads for things that humans buy, bargains on ladies’ and men’s shoes, and sales on lawn chairs and hot dog buns.
* * *
NEIGHBORHOOD STREET FAIR
* * *
&n
Various artists will be on hand. The band Mangled Scrunchie plays at noon. Fair begins at 9am, rain or shine.
I thought that sounded pretty good. Especially the “food tastings” part. Nice way to spend a Saturday morning. And I bet Carlos would be there.
CHAPTER TWO
So I ended up gliding over to the street fair. Scanning the scene from the air, I saw that Marion Street was blocked off to car traffic, with dozens of booths and tables everywhere. People were jammed shoulder to shoulder as they browsed and sampled. All kinds of smells filled the air…meats and spices, smoky incense, perfumed candles, and bouquets of flowers.
I spotted an empty spot on the sidewalk and fluttered to a landing.
“Hey, Homer!” cooed a familiar voice and, just as I had expected, my friend Carlos ambled up. Carlos was a city pigeon, with striped wings and iridescent neck feathers.
“Hey, Carlos!” I said. “Lots of activity here today, huh?”
“People everywhere. Street fairs are cool.”
“Yeah, I love the human-watching.”
“I love the way they drop food everywhere!”
We dodged several pairs of human feet, then sat in a protected spot on the curb.
“Thank goodness humans put on things like these fairs,” Carlos commented. “What a bounty. Yummy treats everywhere.”
“You’re always thinking about food.”
“Well, you don’t have to. You’re the lucky one.”
“You always say that,” I replied.
“But it’s true! You don’t have to spend most of every day looking for food.”
I saw his point, but I thought for a moment. “I work hard for my food,” I said. “Racing…timed flights…it can be grueling.”
“Yeah, I guess. But think about it: you get food brought to you every day. And what digs! Your house is warm and dry and protected. That’s my idea of heaven. I’m lucky if I find a soggy piece of hot dog bun before somebody else does.”
I had to agree with Carlos. I had it pretty good. There wasn’t a day that I went without fresh food and water. My home was warm and dry and protected. Plus, I could come and go whenever I wanted. And with the morning paper, Otto gave me the news of the world every day. Not only could I fly around Bridgetown, I could read about it.
“Speaking of hot dogs,” I said, “there’s a sale on hot dog buns at the Valu-Mart this week.”
Carlos rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother, here we go again.”
“And Miss Powell and Mr. McGee got married.”
Carlos sighed. “Yeah? Well, what of it? Why do you have to tell me this stupid human stuff? I remember when you told me ‘Miss Powell and Mr. McGee Engaged.’ Well…what’s it to you?”
I had to think about that one. I wasn’t sure why the human world fascinated me so much. Maybe it was because I lived with humans. Humans took care of me. I raced for them. To see the excitement in their faces when I raced made me excited. It occurred to me that I spent more time in the human world than the bird world.
But I also knew that when I had seen the very first newspaper that had lined my very first cage and I first looked at the pictures in the paper, something inside of me just clicked. I remember I liked Dick Tracy’s bright yellow coat. And I could tell what was going on with the expressions on the characters’ faces. I began realizing that the little boxes of pictures told a story. It took me a while, but eventually I figured out that all those funny little black scratches on the paper were actually letters of the alphabet. And I thought: Hey! There are twenty-six of those different little shapes! I somehow connected the words and pictures. Then I started putting words together…and then sentences…and then paragraphs.
Then it all started making sense.
There was a big world out there, bigger than a chicken-wire cage.
And I liked knowing there was a big world out there. I liked knowing where Uruguay was, and I liked knowing which ballet was being performed in town, and I liked knowing what hints Heloise had.
But sometimes I wanted to see Uruguay. And to see a ballet. And to thank Heloise, whoever she was, for all her hints.
I glanced at Carlos and sighed. “I…I guess I just think it’s interesting,” I replied finally. How feeble.
Carlos spotted a bit of Italian sausage that had dropped from a sandwich. “I’ll tell you what’s interesting,” he cooed loudly. “Sausage! And the ants haven’t gotten to it yet! Perfecto!”
My crop was still full from breakfast, so I just watched as Carlos pecked at the greasy lump with gusto.
The two of us observed the throngs of people for a while, avoiding getting kicked or stepped on. A man walked by juggling peaches. A woman tried to calm her crying baby and eat blue cotton candy at the same time.
I watched them all. Humans are fascinating to me.
But then I saw something that really grabbed my attention. A girl was feeding dates to a large green bird perched on her shoulder. My jaw gaped open.
I couldn’t remember seeing another bird so closely attached to a human before.
Like me and Otto!
“Look, Carlos,” I exclaimed. “There’s a bird and a girl!”
Carlos looked bored. “Lucky bird. Being hand-fed.”
“But it’s sitting on that girl’s shoulder!”
“Yeah. So?”
“It’s so…unusual! Like they’re friends, like Otto and me.”
“Mm. Nice.”
“The bird is just sitting there!”
“I bet that bird is too fat to fly.”
I chuckled, thinking about all the bits of food that would drop onto the street and sidewalk during the fair. “I bet you’ll be too fat to fly by this afternoon.”
Just then there was a loud screech. I glanced over at the green bird.
“Dates!” it squawked. “Dates!”
I was dumbstruck. “Hey!” I cooed to Carlos. “That bird speaks Human! It just asked the girl for more dates!”
That piqued even Carlos’s interest. “Yeah,” he murmured.
The girl ambled away through the crowd, the bird bobbing on her shoulder. I gazed after them, mesmerized.
CHAPTER THREE
It rained the morning following the street fair. The city was draped in wet. The idea of racing was out: there was no way Otto would want me to race in that mess. It was a comforting thought to just stay warm and dry in my cozy cage.
Otto was his standard punctual self and came up to the loft to spread the day-old newspaper for my breakfast. I pecked my way across the pages, and, as usual, the bottoms of my pink feet turned black from the newsprint.
I noticed an ad at the bottom of page C3. There was a sale at PetzGalore!
COO-OO-OO-OOL! BIG SALE!
Half Off All Grain-Based Seeds!
Millet, Milo, Corn!
Try Our Buckwheat, Flax, and Oats Mix!
Hmm! I thought. Not only was going to PetzGalore a great way to spend a rainy day, it was a perfect chance to get some fresh millet and flax…and I was always a pushover for that. I excitedly pecked and scratched at the ad and flapped my wings to get Otto’s attention.
Otto looked at me, slightly perplexed at first. “Hey, Homer! What’s wrong with you? You’re spreading your food all over the place.”
But I kept pecking and flapping and cooing at the ad, then pecked some more.
“You’re a goof,” Otto said, smiling. He looked at the sky. “Tomorrow should be nice out. Might be a good day for a race.”
I sat on the newspaper, frustrated. Otto hadn’t understood me. It had happened before: I had tried to communicate something to Otto, to no avail. No matter how much I flapped and cooed, I couldn’t get my message across.
