My 8 month old golden retriever Duncan contracted parvovirus from our vet’s office. Very scary; non-stop projectiling- they saved him by injecting him with bags of saline/electrolytes and a few weeks at the emergency vet clinic.

But the whole reason he was at our regular vet’s and contracted parvo in the FIRST place was because he had climbed up on top of the dining room table, opened up a box sealed with packing tape, and devoured a dozen glass Christmas ornaments. He needed 8 hours of surgery to pick the shards out and looked as if someone had “unzipped” his stomach to turn him into a purse.

All of this stunted his growth- he was the shortest golden we’d ever seen. Then he died of lymphosarcoma at age 4. He was my “baby” and I still miss him- he’s buried in my garden and has a lovely stone Charlie had inscribed for me.

Granted, it’s something we have at the back of our minds here, but given that it’s chicken-bone season here in Brooklyn, it’s not the first thing that comes to mind. “Perforation” is.

Could be worse — we were at the vet with a dog, Banjo, who’d eaten a belt.