My name is Barkimus.

I am a very good dog.

My human, Odysseus, insists on being called "King," but I've noticed that kings spend an awful lot of time getting lost.

It all started after the Big Camping Trip at Troy. Humans say they won a glorious war. I wasn't allowed on the giant wooden horse, which is probably for the best because I would have barked at the first suspicious noise and ruined the whole plan.

We were supposed to go home.

Instead, my human apparently selected the scenic route.

First there were the Lotus-Eaters. I don't know what was in those flowers, but everyone forgot we were going home. I tried bringing them sticks. Nothing. I brought them a dead fish. Still nothing. Frankly, I was disappointed in everyone's priorities.

Then came the Cyclops.

Huge fellow.

One eye.

Terrible throwing arm.

Also, absolutely no concept of "Who's a good boy?"

Humans remember that Odysseus outsmarted the Cyclops. I remember that there were sheep everywhere and no one let me herd them. Do you know how difficult that was?

Then there were the winds in a magic bag.

I knew we shouldn't have trusted a bag we weren't allowed to sniff.

Humans have a strange habit of opening forbidden things. Boxes. Bags. Ancient tombs. Mysterious glowing caves. If someone says, "Don't open this," a human immediately says, "I wonder what's inside."

Dogs don't do that.

We sniff first.

Then maybe we open it.

Then we regret it.

Sometimes.

There was a witch named Circe who turned everyone into pigs.

I barely noticed.

Have you ever met sailors?

The only real difference was the tail situation.

After that we visited the Underworld.

I was hoping to meet every dog I'd ever loved.

Instead there were ghosts giving unsolicited advice.

It felt remarkably similar to Thanksgiving.

The Sirens tried to lure us with beautiful singing.

They clearly underestimated my species.

You know what gets a dog's attention?

The refrigerator opening from three counties away.

Not singing.

Then came Scylla and Charybdis, proving once again that every route humans choose contains either monsters, whirlpools, or paperwork.

Years passed.

I chased countless seabirds.

I peed on at least six legendary islands.

I became acquainted with every variety of disappointing squirrel in the Mediterranean.

Finally...

Home.

I knew it instantly.

Dogs always know.

The smell of olive trees.

The familiar breeze.

The exact rock where I'd once buried something extremely important.

(I never found it again.)

Our house, however, had a problem.

It was full of men trying to marry Penelope.

None of them asked if I approved.

Not one.

They patted my head without permission.

Sat in my favorite sunny spots.

Dropped crumbs without sharing properly.

One of them called me "curly."

Unacceptable.

Then a funny thing happened.

Odysseus came home disguised as an old beggar.

The humans were fooled.

I wasn't.

Humans look at faces.

Dogs look at everything else.

The walk.

The smell.

The heartbeat.

The way he scratched behind my ears in exactly the right place.

I'd know my human anywhere.

Even after twenty years.

Especially after twenty years.

Eventually, he picked up his famous bow and reminded everyone why it was a terrible idea to steal another man's house.

There was shouting.

Running.

Several opportunities to fetch arrows.

No one appreciated my assistance.

Humans rarely do during moments of "epic destiny."

Peace returned.

The family was together again.

The kingdom was restored.

The squirrels remained undefeated.

And every evening, Odysseus and I sat outside beneath the stars.

He'd tell stories about monsters, gods, and impossible journeys.

I'd pretend to listen while keeping one eye on a suspicious rabbit.

Because here's what humans never understand:

Home isn't a place you finally reach after years of wandering.

Home is whoever throws the ball.

Even if they occasionally disappear for twenty years.

The 2026 Winter Olympic hockey game is on,

and I am stationed

directly in front of the television—

the Defense Department

of the Living Room.

The ice is bright.

The players glide like elegant vacuum cleaners.

There is a puck.

It moves very fast.

I respect this.

But when Team USA skates out—

oh.

Oh, my tail becomes a helicopter of liberty.

Now, I do not claim bias.

I simply observe facts:

When the Americans shoot,

the puck seems… inspired.

Motivated.

As if it, too, believes in opportunity.

When the opposing team shoots,

the goal shrinks slightly.

Not visibly.

But spiritually.

The goalie in red, white, and blue?

Clearly descended from wolves.

Majestic. Focused.

Possibly part border collie.

I approve.

The referees drop the puck.

I bark once—

a helpful officiating suggestion.

Coincidentally,

the call goes our way.

Hockey players crash into the boards.

This is my favorite part.

Finally—

a sport that understands

the importance of enthusiastic impact.

When USA scores,

my humans explode like squeaky toys.

I launch from couch to rug

in a celebratory zoomie

that analysts are already calling

“bold” and “hard to insure.”

Is the ice slightly smoother

for American skates?

Does the puck enjoy freedom?

Does destiny wear a tiny jersey

and fetch exclusively for our side?

I cannot say for certain.

I am but a humble labradoodle—

strategist, patriot,

occasional slipper thief.

But I do know this:

When the final horn sounds

and the scoreboard glows

in favor of the USA,

the treats taste better.

The couch feels softer.

The nation feels fluffier.

And if the hockey gods

lean just a little

toward my pack—

well.

Good boys recognize

good outcomes.

Woof.

The 2026 Winter Olympic hockey game is on,

and I am stationed

directly in front of the television—

the Defense Department

of the Living Room.

The ice is bright.

The players glide like elegant vacuum cleaners.

There is a puck.

It moves very fast.

I respect this.

But when Team USA skates out—

oh.

Oh, my tail becomes a helicopter of liberty.

Now, I do not claim bias.

I simply observe facts:

When the Americans shoot,

the puck seems… inspired.

Motivated.

As if it, too, believes in opportunity.

When the opposing team shoots,

the goal shrinks slightly.

Not visibly.

But spiritually.

The goalie in red, white, and blue?

Clearly descended from wolves.

Majestic. Focused.

Possibly part border collie.

I approve.

The referees drop the puck.

I bark once—

a helpful officiating suggestion.

Coincidentally,

the call goes our way.

Hockey players crash into the boards.

This is my favorite part.

Finally—

a sport that understands

the importance of enthusiastic impact.

When USA scores,

my humans explode like squeaky toys.

I launch from couch to rug

in a celebratory zoomie

that analysts are already calling

“bold” and “hard to insure.”

Is the ice slightly smoother

for American skates?

Does the puck enjoy freedom?

Does destiny wear a tiny jersey

and fetch exclusively for our side?

I cannot say for certain.

I am but a humble labradoodle—

strategist, patriot,

occasional slipper thief.

But I do know this:

When the final horn sounds

and the scoreboard glows

in favor of the USA,

the treats taste better.

The couch feels softer.

The nation feels fluffier.

And if the hockey gods

lean just a little

toward my pack—

well.

Good boys recognize

good outcomes.

Woof.

The 2026 Winter Olympic hockey game is on,

and I am stationed

directly in front of the television—

the Defense Department

of the Living Room.

The ice is bright.

The players glide like elegant vacuum cleaners.

There is a puck.

It moves very fast.

I respect this.

But when Team USA skates out—

oh.

Oh, my tail becomes a helicopter of liberty.

Now, I do not claim bias.

I simply observe facts:

When the Americans shoot,

the puck seems… inspired.

Motivated.

As if it, too, believes in opportunity.

When the opposing team shoots,

the goal shrinks slightly.

Not visibly.

But spiritually.

The goalie in red, white, and blue?

Clearly descended from wolves.

Majestic. Focused.

Possibly part border collie.

I approve.

The referees drop the puck.

I bark once—

a helpful officiating suggestion.

Coincidentally,

the call goes our way.

Hockey players crash into the boards.

This is my favorite part.

Finally—

a sport that understands

the importance of enthusiastic impact.

When USA scores,

my humans explode like squeaky toys.

I launch from couch to rug

in a celebratory zoomie

that analysts are already calling

“bold” and “hard to insure.”

Is the ice slightly smoother

for American skates?

Does the puck enjoy freedom?

Does destiny wear a tiny jersey

and fetch exclusively for our side?

I cannot say for certain.

I am but a humble labradoodle—

strategist, patriot,

occasional slipper thief.

But I do know this:

When the final horn sounds

and the scoreboard glows

in favor of the USA,

the treats taste better.

The couch feels softer.

The nation feels fluffier.

And if the hockey gods

lean just a little

toward my pack—

well.

Good boys recognize

good outcomes.

Woof.

 ’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the flat,
Not a creature was stirring—except me (and the cat).
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
While I sniffed every one just to see what was there.

The humans were nestled all snug in their bed,
While visions of bacon danced in my head.
I’d just settled down on my warm, comfy mat,
When I heard on the rooftop a clatter—what’s that?!

I sprang to my paws with a growl and a bark,
My collar tag jingled, my voice rang the dark.
Away to the window I flew like a streak,
Nose pressed to the glass, breath fogging the sleek.

The moon on the snow gave a magical glow,
And made the whole yard look like it’s covered in dough.
When, what to my wondering nose should appear,
But a sleigh, eight reindeer—and something quite weird!

A round jolly man in a red woolly suit,
With boots full of soot and a bag to boot.
Faster than squirrels his reindeer all came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name!

“Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

I barked in amazement—my tail was a blur,
Could this be the man all the stories infer?
Then down through the chimney he came with a bound,
And I yipped at the thump of his boots on the ground.

He smelled like snowflakes, and cookies, and joy,
And I thought, “Oh wow, this is the toy-delivering boy!”
I gave him a sniff and a wag just for show,
And he chuckled and whispered, “Good dog, I know.”

He filled all the stockings and patted my head,
Then pulled out a treat—“A snack before bed!”
I took it quite gently (I’m polite, after all),
And licked at the crumbs as he tiptoed down the hall.

Then laying a finger aside of his nose,
He gave me a nod—up the chimney he rose!
I ran to the window, my heart full of cheer,
As his sleigh and his team disappeared in the clear.

But I heard him exclaim as he soared out of sight,
“Good dog, Merry Christmas, and to all a good night!”

A dog with a nose so keen,

Found a path that was rarely seen.

The well-worn trail was far behind,

He sought the road that's undefined.

Through thickets thick and shadows deep,

Where silent secrets softly sleep,

He wandered on, both wild and free,

A world unknown, his destiny.

No leash to guide, no map to follow,

Just whispers of the woods to swallow.

With every step, the journey grew,

A path less traveled, bold and true.

And though it twisted, turned, and spun,

He knew the journey had just begun.

For sometimes in the quiet night,

The road less taken feels just right.

 Twas Cooper, the dog, with paws so light,

He prowled through the day and into the night.

With a woof and a wag, he'd scurry and dart,

Chasing the whiff of a squirrel or cart.

Beware the Fuzzlump, so sly and keen,

With fur all spiky and eyes unseen!

It lurked in the bushes, waiting for fun,

But Cooper would chase it, on the run!

He snipped at the tail of the Toodle-Tuft bird,

A fluttering flap, but not a word.

Then with a leap, and a joyful bark,

He chased the Skibber-Scamp through the park.

With a roll and a tumble, he'd romp and play,

His tail a-whirl in a wild display.

But the Jabberwuff's howl! Oh, how it did ring,

And Cooper would bark back, Let's see who'll sing!

For in Cooper's world, both bright and strange,

Where creatures and dogs could freely range,

There's joy in the chase, and no time for fear,

Just a twist and a turn, and adventure near!

 O Captain! My Captain! You're so full of cheer,

With every step, I wag, my tail drawing near.

Through every walk, every fetch, every bark and play,

You lead me onward, and I follow all day.

O Captain! My Captain! The park is so wide,

The squirrels, the sticks, I'll chase them with pride.

We run, we jump, we leap, we roll,

For you are my hero, my heart, my soul.

O Captain! My Captain! You pet me so right,

You scratch behind ears, I sit with delight.

In rain, in sun, in snow, in mud,

You're my guide, my friend, through every puddle and flood.

O Captain! My Captain! I watch as you work,

While I rest at your feet, not a single quirk.

Through trials, through triumphs, you give me your love,

And I know you're my Captain, sent from above.

O Captain! My Captain! Don't leave me alone,

For with you, I'm happy, with you, I've grown.

My tail wags forever, my heart beats true,

O Captain, my Captain, I'll always stay with you.