Once in nine lives, something extraordinary happens...

The last thing Gwen Cooper wanted was another cat. She already had two, not to mention a phenomenally underpaying job and a recently broken heart. Then Gwen's veterinarian called with a story about a three-week-old eyeless kitten who'd been abandoned. It was love at first sight.

Everyone warned that Homer would always be an "underachiever," never as playful or independent as other cats. But the kitten nobody believed in quickly grew into a three-pound dynamo, a tiny daredevil with a giant heart who eagerly made friends with every human who crossed his path. Homer scaled seven-foot bookcases with ease and leapt five feet into the air to catch flies in mid-buzz. He survived being trapped alone for days after 9/11 in an apartment near the World Trade Center, and even saved Gwen's life when he chased off an intruder who broke into their home in the middle of the night.

But it was Homer's unswerving loyalty, his infinite capacity for love, and his joy in the face of all obstacles that inspired Gwen daily and transformed her life. And by the time she met the man she would marry, she realized Homer had taught her the most important lesson of all: Love isn't something you see with your eyes.

Homer's Odyssey is the once-in-a-lifetime story of an extraordinary cat and his human companion. It celebrates the refusal to accept limits - on love, ability, or hope against overwhelming odds. By turns jubilant and moving, it's a memoir for anybody who's ever fallen completely and helplessly in love with a pet.

By Patricia Khuly, VMD

When I first saw the kitten, he was a minuscule bit of black fuzz cupped in a young woman's outstretched hands. No different from any other kitten, it would seem - that is, until he raised his head and emitted an impressive yowl for a creature only four inches in length, tip-to-tail.

Tiny though he was, he turned to the sound of my voice. That's when I saw his eyes. This two-week-old foundling was clearly suffering from a severe infection that would surely take his sight, if not his life.

The well - meaning couple who'd found him practically begged me to euthanize him immediately. Despite their entreaties, I performed a careful physical examination as the kitten struggled, legs flailing, and mewled vigorously on the stainless steel exam table. Finally, I announced that the kitten seemed perfectly healthy - if you discounted his ocular condition. Would they consider adopting him if I was able to treat his infection?

For a long list of reasons, the couple could not provide a home for such a young kitten. They worked. They had a dog. They didn't have the money. And what were the chances that he would ever be able to see again, anyway?

Oh ... none. No chance. I explained that I intended to surgically remove his eyes to save his life.

I'm pretty sure that's when I lost them. Shaking their heads in disbelief, they elected to sign him over to my care. His pitiable cries probably pushed their decision along the path of rejection - they were convinced he was suffering terrible pain.

After his owners agreed to give him up, he was mine to treat as seemed in his best interests. I still had my doubts, but they were laid to rest once the source of his immediate discomfort was revealed: hunger. A small bowl of cat food mashed with milk replacer stifled his cries. He was peacefully asleep within minutes, sealing my decision to treat his eyes, never mind the blindness to come.

After all, I thought, this kitten had never had the benefit of sight. Unlike human babies, cats are born with their eyes sealed to the world for ten to thirteen days. This two-weeker's relatively long-standing infection had almost certainly prevented any emerging vision. Once treated, he'd be blind without ever missing the sensory capacity for sight. Like many animals, kittens are capable of rerouting their neurologic faculties for successful survival through a process called individual environmental adaptation - my fancy term for "I refuse to put him to sleep." How could I renege on my duty to alleviate suffering if I could maintain a life worth living?

Ask any young, idealistic vets, and they'll likely confess to the same kind of sin I committed the day this blind kitten came my way. If the animal is afflicted yet healable - and even remotely adoptable - It's meant to be, we reason. They're the ones who always strum our heartstrings with their astonishing survival skills and irresistible ugly-duckling potential.

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Copyright © 2009 by Gwen Cooper.

Tags: Pets

About the Author

Gwen Cooper is the author of the novel Diary of a South Beach Party Girl. A Miami native, she spent five years working in nonprofit administration, marketing, and fundraising. She coordinated volunteer activities on behalf of organizations including Pet Rescue, the Miami Lighthouse for the Blind, the Miami Rescue Mission, and His House Children's Home, and initiated Reading Pen Pals, an elementary school-based literacy program in Miami's Little Haiti. Gwen currently lives in Manhattan with her husband, Laurence. She also lives with her three perfect cats - Scarlett, Vashti, and Homer - who aren't impressed with any of it. More