Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #41 : The Beagle and the Mule That Time Forgot: Mets Mascot Madness

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we dust off the bubble-gum cards and game-used jerseys of the guys who made you squint and go, “Wait… didn’t he play for us?”

Last week, we took the mound and revisited Don Cardwell , the veteran right-hander who tossed a no-hitter, mentored the Miracle Mets, and somehow managed to mix pitching prowess with a flair for drama (and bead-snatching).

This week, we’re switching things up again , and this time, we’re leaving the human race entirely. That’s right: neither of this week’s subjects could throw a pitch, swing a bat, or sign an autograph. Yet both wore Mets blue and orange proudly and became, for brief and bizarre moments, the faces (and snouts) of the franchise.

We’re talking about Homer the Beagle and Mettle the Mule , two mascots not named Mr. or Mrs. Met who trotted, barked, and brayed their way into Mets lore , and out of it just as quickly.

Before there was Mr. Met, before Mrs. Met, before the Home Run Apple ever popped its orange head out of the outfield wall, there was Homer the Beagle — the New York Mets’ first-ever mascot, and arguably the only one in team history who could claim Lassie as a professional reference.

Yes, Homer was a real, live dog — a floppy-eared beagle trained by none other than Rudd Weatherwax, the Hollywood legend who worked with several of the Lassies. The Mets brought him aboard in 1962, their inaugural season, when the team desperately needed something to draw fans’ attention away from all the losing. And losing they did — 120 times, to be exact — but thanks to Homer, at least they did it with a wagging tail.

Homer lived the good life for a mascot of a 40–120–1 ballclub. He stayed at the Waldorf-Astoria, was sponsored by Rheingold Beer, and had his own reserved platform behind home plate at the Polo Grounds. He was supposed to be the team’s good-luck charm, a lovable distraction from the daily disaster on the diamond. Unfortunately, his biggest fan was not his manager. Casey Stengel, already juggling a roster that looked like it had been assembled from an expansion draft and a rummage sale, drew the line at sharing his dugout with a dog.

“Get that mutt outta here,” was the gist of Casey’s opinion, and that was that. Homer was banned from the bench.

Still, the Mets had high hopes for their canine companion. His big promotional stunt was supposed to be running the bases after Mets home runs. It sounded adorable in theory — a four-legged victory lap to lift everyone’s spirits. In rehearsal, he nailed it. On game day? Not so much. Homer rounded first, sniffed his way toward second, then suddenly veered off into center field, apparently catching the scent of a hot dog stand. According to Roger Angell, it took “three fielders, two ushers, and his handler” to corral him. In a rare moment of Mets efficiency, Homer was “relieved of his duties” soon after.

But in truth, Homer was just doing what beagles do — following his nose. You can’t really blame him. If you were stuck watching the 1962 Mets every day, you’d probably go looking for a hot dog, too.

Despite his short-lived tenure, Homer became a quirky footnote in Mets lore — the first of many “what were they thinking?” moments in team history. He even made a cameo at the 1967 Old Timers’ Game, proving that, much like the fans, even fired Mets eventually come back for nostalgia’s sake.

Today, the spirit of Homer lives on in a far more noble form. The Amazin’ Mets Foundation now sponsors “Buddy,” a service pup-in-training through America’s VetDogs, a nonprofit that provides service dogs to veterans and first responders. Buddy’s been raised around Citi Field since 2024 — learning patience, confidence, and maybe even how to handle a bullpen meltdown. Homer would’ve been proud.

Of course, after Homer the Beagle’s short-lived Mets career, you’d think the franchise would swear off animal mascots altogether. But this is the Mets we’re talking about — the same team that once wore black uniforms in July and let Tom Seaver get away twice.

So naturally, a decade later, someone in the front office decided, “You know what we need? A mule.”

Enter Mettle the Mule, a stubborn symbol of the late-1970s Mets — a time when the team’s fortunes, attendance, and hairstyles were all heading in the wrong direction.

If Homer the Beagle was a lovable mess, at least he had timing. By the late 1970s, the Mets weren’t just bad — they were creatively bad. Gone were the glory days of the Miracle Mets. Gone, too, was the good sense that once guided the franchise. What we had left was a mule. Literally.

After the death of beloved owner Joan Payson, the team passed into the hands of her daughter, Lorinda de Roulet, who — bless her heart — was more of a horse-show person than a baseball person. By 1979, the Mets were circling the drain of the National League East, Shea Stadium was half-empty (on a good day), and the vibe around Flushing was about as upbeat as a rain delay in November.

Enter Lorinda’s daughter, Bebe de Roulet, who decided what the Mets really needed wasn’t pitching, hitting, or front-office competence — it was a mascot with hooves. Somewhere between a morale boost and a cry for help, she introduced Arthur the mule, a squat, shaggy creature who debuted at Shea that summer to trot along the foul lines before games and pose for photos with whatever fans hadn’t yet given up.

To their credit, the DeRoulets went all in. They even floated the idea of having relievers ride the mule in from the bullpen. Picture Bob Apodaca entering a tie game in the ninth, clopping in from right field on a donkey with “Let’s Go Mets” painted on its rump. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed. As one promotions director later said, “I just couldn’t, in good conscience, tell a reliever he had to ride into a major league game on a mule.”

Arthur didn’t stay “Arthur” for long. In an act of fan participation that could only have happened in 1979, the Mets held a “Name the Mule” contest. The winning entry came from a fan in New Jersey named Dolores Mapps, who suggested “Mettle” — a word that meant “spirit, ardor, stamina, and courage,” all of which, she said, “the Mets have in abundance.” That was generous of her. Another fan reportedly suggested “Help,” which probably would’ve been more accurate. Personally, I might’ve gone with something more fitting for the era maybe Ed Kranemule, Bob ASSpromonte, or Tri Burro.

Mettle, as it turned out, had plenty of spirit but little staying power. Depending on which old Shea groundskeeper you believe, the mule was either stabled near the bullpen next to coach Joe Pignatano’s tomato plants or kept behind home plate, where his aroma was said to outdraw the offense. Like Homer the Beagle before him, Mettle’s tenure was brief. When Fred Wilpon and Nelson Doubleday bought the team in 1980, one of their first executive decisions was to send Mettle to a permanent, uh, “farm system.”

Homer chased hot dogs, Mettle chased dignity, and somewhere along the line, the Mets kept chasing .500. Neither mascot lasted long, but their brief cameos captured something beautifully bizarre about this franchise , a team that could lose close to 100 games and still trot out a mule like it was the secret to success. In their own weird way, Homer and Mettle proved what every Mets fan already knows: sometimes, the joke’s on us and yet we love it anyway.