Keith Spera's Paternity Test: a family dog crisis

May 15, 2023

The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming.

The trash can cabinet door was ajar, possibly pried open by a stealthy snout or paw. The Styrofoam tray from the steak packaging was on the floor. The packaging's absorbent pad was missing.

And Goose, our 22-pound mutt, looked very, very guilty.

Ears down, tail tucked, he avoided eye contact, hoping that would make his master's stern voice, and whatever he was in trouble for, go away.

But this one wasn't going away on its own.

The apple juice spilled somewhere over Newfoundland.

As the family was distracted by a dance-contest video game, Goose slipped behind the kitchen island and quietly raided the trash.

During almost three years in our home, many foreign objects have traversed his digestive track. Paper towels are a favorite delicacy. So, too — disgustingly — anything out of a bathroom wastebasket.

In time, with difficulty, all these things have passed.

But meat packaging presents a stickier problem. The big absorbent pads tend to get stuck inside a dog's intestines, requiring surgery.

And Goose had apparently eaten one.

Son of a bitch.

Goose eyes Celia Spera's breakfast recently. His tastes are not necessarily limited to actual food, as a recent 'dietary indiscretion' proved.

His was not a noble birth. He resulted from the unsanctioned coupling of a rat terrier and a dachshund at a farm already overrun with too many canines. We met him as a black-and-white ball of puppy energy via a rescue organization's website early in the pandemic.

He would easily win any vote on our household's favorite male resident. My wife and our daughters, 15-year-old Sophie and 11-year-old Celia, cannot speak to Goose without their voices rising a couple octaves into baby-talk territory.

When the kids come home from school, Goose, having napped all day, loses his mind. Every time, it's like they’ve just returned from six months at sea.

"Who's the good-est boy?" Sophie coos. "Who's the best-est puppy in the whole wide world? Who's my sweet boy? Who's my Goose-berry pie?"

After several minutes of this, she may notice her father.

"Oh, hi, Dad."

And then back to Goose.

On school mornings, the dog scampers upstairs and hops into Celia's bed, finds her among the stuffed animal menagerie, and licks her face until she wakes up.

Celia will wrap him in a nice blanket previously reserved for human use and gently tuck him in on the sofa, even as I remind him that his ancestors were wolves who did not sleep on sofas and soft blankets.

He stares back blankly, unmoved.

Even Sam, who was initially terrified of Goose and dogs in general, has embraced him as "my brother." Tasked at school with drawing a picture of his "special safe adult," Sam sketched my wife....and Goose.

Goose recently turned three. More of a fuss was made for his birthday than mine.

Goose the Spera family dog awaits delivery of his birthday treat.

Which is fine. The dog is my daughters’ baby. Cuddling with him comforts all involved, relieving the myriad pressures and problems of being a teenage or preteen girl.

He's a rascal, but he's our rascal.

So simply crossing our fingers and hoping the absorbent pad meandering around inside him would exit on its own wasn't good enough.

And medical intervention would be cheaper than therapy for three kids traumatized by the premature loss of their beloved pet.

So off we went to the veterinarian, even though Goose was acting normal.

A small national park near Waco, Texas, preserves an archaeological site where a cluster of mammoths were unearthed. The fossilized mammoths c…

Apprised of the situation, Dr. Jen wanted to take an X-ray. Goose refused to cooperate.

So Dr. Jen moved on to Plan B: induce vomiting and hope for the best.

She disappeared with Goose. Minutes later, she returned.

He’d successfully puked up the pad. It came out in a tight wad, an indication his system had been trying to move it out of his stomach into a tighter intestinal passage.

His official diagnosis, as recorded in his medical records: "Dietary indiscretion."

Which is a delicate way of saying he ate garbage.

In addition to the pad, Goose expelled what Dr. Jen thought was a shard of baby carrot.

That's weird, I thought. We haven't had baby carrots in a while.

The mystery debris turned out to be a sliver of an orange foam dart from Sam's Nerf gun. A foam Nerf dart apparently makes a fine appetizer before consuming a foam pad.

Tummy emptied, Goose merrily strained against his leash outside the vet's office. The kids were relieved to learn he was fine.

"What would we do without our Goose-y?" Sophie asked, doe-eyed and dreamy.

Fortunately, we won't find out just yet.

Staff writer Keith Spera writes about his parenting adventures in the occasional 'Paternity Test' column.

Email Keith Spera at [email protected].