the dog ate my homework book

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Fun fact: John Steinbeck’s dog ate the first draft of Of Mice and Men .

“The dog ate my homework” is, perhaps, the oldest excuse in the book. But it really happened to John Steinbeck! His dog, Toby, apparently ate half of the first manuscript of Of Mice and Men .

On this very day, May 27, 1936, he wrote :

Minor tragedy stalked. My setter pup, left alone one night, made confetti of about half of my manuscript book. Two months work to do over again. It set me back. There was no other draft. I was pretty mad, but the poor little fellow may have been acting critically. I didn’t want to ruin a good dog for a manuscript I’m not sure is good at all. He only got an ordinary spanking … I’m not sure Toby didn’t know what he was doing when he ate the first draft. I have promoted Toby-dog to be a lieutenant-colonel in charge of literature.

Dog lover that he was, at least he was in good humor about it! (Maybe the moral here is: if your first draft gets destroyed, don’t  terrier self up about it!)

As for Toby, maybe he really was trying to tell his owner that the first draft was  ruff and he didn’t want Steinbeck to setter for it. Or he was hounding him to finish the thing, already! Maybe he just didn’t like that Lennie accidentally killed that innocent dog in the book.

Or maybe Toby somehow knew that later in life, John Steinbeck would go on to write a travelogue with his other dog, a poodle named Charley.

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April 18, 2014

Contemporary Fiction , Education

The Dog Ate My Homework

It seemed like the most plausible excuse at the time: blame the new dog for eating up my now overdue essay. But then I just had to embellish...

Karen Donley-Hayes

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The fact of the matter was, I didn’t have anyone else to blame. So I blamed Roscoe–perhaps ill-advised, him being my father’s K-9 partner-in-waiting, but I had completely forgotten my homework. I wasn’t in the habit of lying or putting blame where it didn’t belong, but I was caught off guard–daydreaming about Roscoe, in fact. My third grade teacher now loomed over my desk, expectant, her hand outstretched, fingers wiggling. And in my deer-in-the-headlights stare, with Miss Underwood frowning down at me, the words blurted out all on their own.

“Roscoe ate it.”

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“What?” Miss Underwood scowled more, if that were possible. She planted her fists against her ample hips and leaned in, hovering over me.

I blinked, swallowed a spitless lump in my throat, and having already lied, promptly repeated myself. “Roscoe ate it,” I said with slightly more conviction.

Miss Underwood stood stiff, smack dab in front of my desk, so close I should have been able to smell the little flowers on her dress. I had an overpowering impulse to move away from her, but my chair shackled me to the spot. I stared at the vibrant gladiola sprouting out from beneath Miss Underwood’s belt, and felt the entire class’s attention span shake from all else and swoop down on me.

“Mister Pike. You are not lying to me, are you?” It was more a challenge than a question.

Miss Underwood absolutely terrified me–almost as much as did the prospect of acquiring the entire class’s ridicule or getting caught in a bald-faced lie–and such terror can be a remarkable survival mechanism, because my brain spun a web and my mouth spewed it out without so much as consulting with me. I sat, breathless and rapt with the rest of the class, listening to this story unfold.

“Oh, no ma’am,” a voice–my voice–poured out of me, my brain, frenetic, only barely keeping a syllable ahead of my mouth. “I wrote my report on the metamorphosis of tadpoles into frogs,” I heard. (It was a good thing I had recently become fascinated by this amphibious process and had not only been reading about it but observing it in the natural setting of our backyard.) “And I took the paper with me to the pond so that I could look at them and draw pictures to show the stages, and Roscoe came with me, and I had a tadpole on the top of the paper so I could trace it and Roscoe saw it and before I knew what happened he jumped on it and swallowed it whole, and the paper.”

I shifted my bug-eyed gaze up the floral landscape to the teacher’s face. Miss Underwood remained completely still.

“And the rock that I had holding the paper down,” my voice said. Her eye twitched, barely perceptible. “And the pencil I was using.” Her brows drew closer together. “And then it was dark, and I couldn’t draw them again, and then I had to do my chores and it was time for bed.”

Miss Underwood frowned, unwedged one hand from her hip and pointed at my chest. “You’d better be sure to get that dog to the vet, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded vigorously. “We’re taking him this afternoon.”

“Good,” she said. “And re-write your report and bring it in tomorrow. Along with a report on how Roscoe did at the vet’s.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and wondered if the pittance I had in the Mason jar under my bed could buy me a plane, train, or boat ticket anywhere else in the world.

That afternoon, when I slouched from the school bus, Roscoe careened down the driveway to meet me, his half-grown legs all knobs and paws flying indiscriminately; he seemed none the worse for wear for his “misadventure” of the day before. I trudged up the driveway, the pup orbiting around me, bounding and panting, pausing only to wolf down my mother’s lone remaining gladiola. While my reporting of late had been very light on honesty, there was truth to the fact that Roscoe was a one-canine mauling, gulping, devouring, completely-nondiscriminatory eating machine. The gladiolas, much to my mother’s dismay, had vanished into his maw during a single galumphing frenzy; this was shortly after Roscoe had discovered the infinite wonders that the frog pond in the backyard held. Mom had admonished my father to restrain the dog. Dad had testified that socialization was critical to Roscoe’s mental development and future as a police dog. Mom declared her flowers unfair casualties. Dad promised to build a fence for her gardens (a moot point, as Roscoe had already decimated them).

The sound of my mother’s footsteps on the porch drew my attention; I looked up to see Roscoe gleefully caprioling by her side. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and was staring at me with an expression that immediately made me slow my already lethargic trudge.

“I hear Roscoe ate your homework,” she said. There was no tone of accusation or belief–or even disbelief, for that matter–just a simple statement. I stopped and looked up at her, and for two ticks of a heartbeat I was on the verge of coming clean. I steeled myself to admit my lie, to face the consequences, and to be a better man for it. During those two ticks of a heartbeat, Roscoe splayed himself on the porch and latched onto one of the banister posts, gnawing and grunting.

“Yes ma’am,” I said, and felt the heat rise under my collar as I lied to my own mother. I looked intently at Roscoe (who supported my story with his every action) to avoid looking in my mother’s eyes. I heard her sigh.

“Well, alright then. I called Dr. Brown’s office as soon as Miss Underwood phoned me, so let’s get things together and get going. Hopefully, he’ll be fine; it’s that rock I’m worried about.”

I nodded and walked up the porch steps, head down and ashamed, and slipped past my mother, past the squirming, euphoric mass of German shepherd enthusiasm. My mother stayed on the porch while I dropped my book bag on the kitchen table. Roscoe leapt up, flung himself against her legs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her reach down idly and rub his head. He gazed up at her adoringly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, wood splinters flecking his lips; his tailed swished nonstop across the porch.

“Maybe the paper and rock and all just went right through him,” I said, and hoped that if a dog actually were to eat a paper and a rock, they might actually move right along. Otherwise, I was going to be busted when the vet checked the dog out and declared him devoid of foreign objects. Not that I wanted him to have a problem; I didn’t, but his clean bill of health was my sentence. Granted, it was of my own making.

“I hope so,” Mom’s voice came in from the porch. I heard her add, under her breath, “Roscoe, you’re going to be the death of me if you live long enough.”

In the vet’s waiting room, I studiously worked on my tadpole-to-frog report, shielding it from Roscoe, who my mother worked up a sweat restraining. And when it was finally his turn to go in and be examined, and I was left with silence and the weight of my own guilt, I could barely remember the details of amphibian metamorphosis, much less write about them. Mom, quiet, read a paperback. The clock on the wall ticked off five minutes, 10, 15; the smell of the waiting room mixed with the odor of wet dog, cat pee, and rodent cage litter, and I began to feel nauseous.

“How’s your paper coming?” Mom asked. I shrugged. I sweated.

I was nearly to the point of breaking down and admitting my guilt, or at least bolting from the waiting room and into the parking lot, when Dr. Brown summoned us. Mom clutched her purse, and I drooped behind her, a condemned man going to the gallows. The vet brought us into the execution chamber, and closed the door. The harsh florescent lights gleamed, ruthless and all-seeing. Roscoe was not in the room to witness my punishment.

Dr. Brown cleared his throat. I felt a prickling thrill of sweat, and stared fixedly at the poster of canine parasites on the wall. “Well, we took x-rays of Roscoe, and we don’t see your rock or your paper.”

I couldn’t help a fleeting glance at the vet; he met my eyes for a beat, then looked over at Mom. “But it’s a good thing you brought him in, because we did see something else.”

I blinked, confused.

“Oh?” my mother said.

Dr. Brown turned his back to us, popped a thick sheet of film against a panel, and turned on the light behind it. Ribs and spine and gray masses flickered to light. Dr. Brown glanced over his shoulder toward us. Both Mom and I leaned toward the glowing image. Dr. Brown cleared his throat again and pointed to something in the middle of the picture. I looked closer, squinted, and then with a sting of recognition, I understood the image on the screen. My mother realized at the same time, and she chuffed, glancing sidelong at me.

“This,” Dr. Brown said, tapping the image of my G.I. Joe, recently MIA, “needs to come out. And it won’t come out the easy way like that rock did,” he glanced down at me again. “It will snag other things he swallows, and you’re going to have a bad emergency situation, maybe a dead dog.”

My mother reached for the collar of her blouse, pressed her hand flat. “Oh, no. Oh, poor Roscoe!”

My skin prickled again, but I wasn’t worried about my guilt and punishment anymore. “Will he be okay?” My voice sounded tiny and tremulous. “He won’t really die, will he?”

Dr. Brown smiled then. “No, I think we got him in time. We’ll put him on the surgery schedule for the morning, and he should be right as rain in a month’s time.” He reached a hand out and ruffled my hair. I realized I was crying. “In a way, it’s a good thing he ate your homework, otherwise you might not have found out about this until it was too late.”

I looked up at him lamely.

That weekend, Dad fenced off what was left of Mom’s gardens, I patrolled the entire house and yard and commandeered all swallowable objects (and even some that didn’t seem swallowable), and my folks and I discussed the new obedience regimen for Roscoe. When he came home a few days later, belly shaved but none-the-worse for wear, I doted on him and chaperoned him vigilantly. After a short period of gorging withdrawal, Roscoe adjusted gleefully to his obedience training, and was already ahead of the learning curve when he officially entered his police-dog training.

I was too ashamed to ever admit to my parents my panic-induced homework fabrication. I like to think that the guilt and anxiety I experienced for that long afternoon was punishment enough, and sometimes, I also like to think that it was all part of the plan for Roscoe’s long and decorated life. I like to think that, but I don’t believe it much more than Miss Underwood believed me.

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Where Did The Phrase “The Dog Ate My Homework” Come From?

Dogs are known as man’s best friend. Dogs keep us safe, are hard workers … and can provide a handy excuse in a pinch. Maybe that’s why versions of the classic expression the dog ate my homework have been around for hundreds of years.

Today, the dog ate my homework is used as a stock example of the kind of silly excuses schoolchildren give for why their work isn’t finished. Very rarely do people say, “the dog ate my homework” and expect it to be taken literally; they use the expression as an example of a typically flimsy excuse.

So where did the phrase come from?

Forrest Wickman, a writer for Slate , describes the legend of the 6th-century Saint Ciarán of Clonmacnoise as the alleged first recorded “the dog ate my homework” story. According to the tale, Saint Ciarán had a tame young fox that would take his writings to his master for him. One day, the fox grew up and decided to eat the leather strap binding the writings together instead. Still, this tale is more Garden-of-Eden parable and less terrible schoolchild excuse.

The notion that dogs will eat just about anything, including paper, turns up in lots of stories over the centuries. An example comes from The Humors of Whist , published in 1808 in Sporting Magazine . In the story, the players are sitting around playing cards when one of them remarks that their companion would have lost the game had the dog not eaten the losing card. Good boy.

Some attribute the creation of the dog ate my homework to a joke that was going around at the beginning of the 20th century. In a tale found as far back as an 1894 memoir by Anglican priest Samuel Reynolds Hole, a preacher gives a shortened version of a sermon because a dog got into his study and ate some of the pages he had written. However, the clerk loved it because they had been wanting the preacher to shorten his sermons for years.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary , the first example of the dog ate my homework excuse in print can be found in a speech given by retiring headmaster James Bewsher in 1929 and published in the Manchester Guardian : “It is a long time since I have had the excuse about the dog tearing up the arithmetic homework.” The way this comment is phrased suggests that the whole dog ate my homework story had been around for some time before it was put in print.

When was the word homework created?

But in order for a dog to eat homework specifically, homework had to be invented (oh, and how we wish it hadn’t been). True, the word homework , as in what we call today housework , appears as early as 1653. But homework , as in school exercises to be done at home, isn’t found until 1852. Once we had homework , it was only a matter of time before the dog was accused of eating it.

How we use this phrase now

No matter the origin, sometime in the 1950s, the expression became set as the dog ate my homework . This inspired any number of riffs on the theme, like my cow ate my homework or my brother ate my homework . In the 1960s, the dog ate my homework continued to gain popularity. The expression popped up a couple times in politics over the years, like when President Reagan said to reporters in 1988, “I had hoped that we had marked the end of the ‘dog-ate-my-homework’ era of Congressional budgetry … but it was not to be.”

It seems unlikely that the dog ate my homework was ever used consistently or frequently by actual schoolchildren. In fact, it’s the unlikeliness of the story that makes it so funny and absurd as a joke. Instead, teachers and authority figures appear to have cited the dog ate my homework many times over the years as such a bad excuse they can’t believe students are really using it.

In the 21st century, students don’t spend as much time working with physical pen and paper as they once did. That may contribute to the decline in the use of the phrase. So, maybe soon we’ll see a new equally absurd phrase pop up. Come on Zoomers, you’ve got this.

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Poems & Poets

My Doggy Ate My Homework

“My doggy ate my homework. He chewed it up,” I said. But when I offered my excuse My teacher shook her head. I saw this wasn’t going well. I didn’t want to fail. Before she had a chance to talk, I added to the tale: “Before he ate, he took my work And tossed it in a pot. He simmered it with succotash Till it was piping hot. “He scrambled up my science notes With eggs and bacon strips, Along with sautéed spelling words And baked potato chips. “He then took my arithmetic    And had it gently fried. He broiled both my book reports    With pickles on the side. “He wore a doggy apron As he cooked a notebook stew. He barked when I objected. There was nothing I could do.” “Did he wear a doggy chef hat?” She asked me with a scowl. “He did,” I said. “And taking it Would only make him growl.” My teacher frowned, but then I said    As quickly as I could, “He covered it with ketchup,    And he said it tasted good.” “A talking dog who likes to cook?”    My teacher had a fit. She sent me to the office,    And that is where I sit. I guess I made a big mistake    In telling her all that. ’Cause I don’t have a doggy.    It was eaten by my cat. Copyright Credit: “My Doggy Ate My Homework.” © 2004 by Dave Crawley. Reprinted from If Kids Ruled the School (© 2004 by Meadowbrook Creations) with permission from Meadowbrook Press. Source: If Kids Ruled the School (Meadowbrook Press, 2004)

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My Dog Ate My Homework

From the book The Biggest Burp Ever

My dog ate my homework. That mischievous pup got hold of my homework and gobbled it up.

My dog ate my homework. It’s gonna be late. I guess that the teacher will just have to wait.

My dog ate my homework. He swallowed it whole. I shouldn’t have mixed it with food in his bowl.

 — Kenn Nesbitt

Copyright © 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Reading Level: Grade 1 Topics: Animal Poems , School Poems Poetic Techniques: Irony , Narrative Poems Word Count: 60

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My dog ate my homework! : a collection of funny poems

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• My Dog Ate My Homework! (REVISION) Meadowbrook, Paperback, 2009
• My Dog Ate My Homework Meadowbrook, Hardcover, 2003
• MY DOG ATE MY HOMEWORK: A COLLECTION OF FUNNY POEMS SCHOLASTIC, INC., Paperback, 2003
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My Homework Ate My Dog Kindle Edition

• Reading age 3 - 10 years
• Language English
• Publication date November 10, 2021
• Page Flip Not Enabled
• Word Wise Not Enabled
• Enhanced typesetting Not Enabled
• Sticky notes Not Enabled
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Editorial Reviews

"My Homework Ate My Dog is the perfect kids' book with refreshing humor and a clever rhyming pattern. The witty spin on the classic homework fib, 'my dog ate my homework' was hilarious and innovative. The illustrations were amazing. Another Charles Montgomery classic!" -Paris Chanel, best-selling children's book author

"Whimsical, amusing, and hilarious! My Homework Ate My Dog takes a creative twist on an age-old excuse, flipping it on its head. Kids and adults alike will be laughing together as they rhyme their way through the story. Wait until you get to the end, there's a surprise that is sure to make you smile!" -Pat Segadelli. Author, Gio & Banks: Scarcity, Choices, and Tradeoffs

Product details

• ASIN ‏ : ‎ B09KHMTPYB
• Publisher ‏ : ‎ (November 10, 2021)
• Publication date ‏ : ‎ November 10, 2021
• Language ‏ : ‎ English
• File size ‏ : ‎ 6318 KB
• Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Not enabled
• Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Not Enabled
• X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Not Enabled
• Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Not Enabled
• Sticky notes ‏ : ‎ Not Enabled
• #160 in Children's United States Folk Tales
• #255 in Children's Cartoon Books
• #440 in Children's Poetry (Kindle Store)

About the author

Sir Charles Montgomery

Loving the absurd

Also likes haikus

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Customers say

Customers find the book very funny, fun to read, and silly. They also appreciate the cute illustrations and whimsical writing. Readers describe the storyline as adorable, enjoyable, and a good story for teachers to read to students.

AI-generated from the text of customer reviews

Customers find the book very funny, fun to read, and creative. They say the rhyme adds to the excitement and the book is a riot. Readers also mention the book doesn't disappoint and keeps kids engaged throughout.

"This book was so cute and fun ! Loved the adventure in the story. It’s nice to read a book that has a twist...." Read more

"This book is just silly and funny enough to keep my second grader engaged!..." Read more

"...This book is really creative and funny . Unexpected turns of the story all the time. The book is written in rhymes. Nice illustrations...." Read more

"...worked really well with the story, I loved the art, and parents will enjoy reading this along with their children...." Read more

Customers find the illustrations cute, whimsical, and fun. They also say the book is creative, clever, and unique. Readers mention the rhyming makes it even better.

"This book was so cute and fun! Loved the adventure in the story. It’s nice to read a book that has a twist...." Read more

"...The illustrations are simple but support the story well. Overall, this is an enjoyable read." Read more

"...This book is really creative and funny. Unexpected turns of the story all the time. The book is written in rhymes. Nice illustrations...." Read more

"...The rhymes worked really well with the story , I loved the art, and parents will enjoy reading this along with their children...." Read more

Customers find the story adorable. They also enjoy the storyline and the twist at the end. Readers mention the book is good for teachers to read to students. They appreciate the simple illustrations that support the story well.

"This book was so cute and fun! Loved the adventure in the story . It’s nice to read a book that has a twist...." Read more

"...The illustrations are simple but support the story well . Overall, this is an enjoyable read." Read more

"...A nice rhyming book with a funny twist at the ending that all kids will love." Read more

Reviews with images

A Great and Entertaining Story

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