The Amazing Goober

My family has a dog named Goober. Well… we think he is a dog. Goober came to us a few years ago after he was tragically dumped on a freeway in Louisiana. My grandparents owned some land there, and my dad was working on fixing up their house at the time. The neighbors across the road had rescued him and were taking care of him, but they already had multiple dogs and could not afford to take in another. So they offered the dog to my dad. I found out about Goober when I heard my mom talking to my dad on the phone. “Are you crazy? We already have three guinea pigs and a rabbit! We cannot take in a dog!” You know how it goes… Goober ended up coming back home with my dad.

Goober arrived in our house shaven, nervous, and covered in flees. We did not know how old he was, but he had horrible teeth and problems with heartworm, which were things that we needed to take care of pretty quickly. Fleas were also a constant battle for Goober. Goober hates baths. He is convinced the any tub filled with water is a torture chamber, and whoever is the bath-giver (often it is my dad) is his designated torturer. Goober’s hair is also very curly, so he is almost always in need of grooming.

At first, I was unsure about Goober. But in just a couple weeks, I became his favorite person. He is a poodle mix lap dog, weighs less than ten pounds, and resembles the same grey color as most streets are. We joke that Goober is actually a cat in disguise. We originally tried to get him to chase balls and squirrels, but he would only sit staring at us. His comprehension of normal dog activities seemed low.

Or perhaps he is a baby disguised in fur. You know, like the wolf in sheep’s clothing? “Hold me!” he says in his eyes and face. Goober has to be held all day in somebody’s arms. He also cannot sleep anywhere except in somebody’s bed. Of course, I am his favorite, and so is my bed.

We think Goober’s previous owner fed him food only from the table. During the first week, Goober refused to eat any dog food. Once his bowl was filled, he smelled it and looked at us, his face clearly showing disgust. He would wait for the smell of cooking meat, and then he became our own circus dog, dancing for food with his little jig, on hind legs and everything. He was pretty upset that we did not comply. He kept up his begging for some time, but after a week of self-starvation, Goober decided that dog food wasn’t so bad after all.

Goober is now an integrated member of the Wingate family. He is a delight to us, real dog or not. And I know that I love him, because I often think of him and miss him while in College Station.