My Take Tuesday: By the Power of Grayskull…

Max is a very small poodle with big problems.

He came in after three days of not eating. That alone will get my attention. But then his owner added another detail—there was a rotten smell coming from his mouth. That’s often a recipe that never ends well.

On exam, Max looked miserable. Lethargic. Drool hanging from both sides of his mouth like a failed toothpaste commercial. He couldn’t quite close his mouth, which is never ideal for a species that relies heavily on mouths for, well… everything.

No fever. No obvious trauma. Just a very sad dog with a very unhappy face.

We gave a mild sedative and gently opened his mouth. The cause became immediately apparent.

There it was—wedged firmly between the upper molars on the left side—a piece of plastic. Not subtle. Not biodegradable. Lodged with purpose.

As I carefully removed it, I noticed something familiar about the shape.

It was a hand. A right hand. 

Not just any hand. A very specific hand. Molded plastic. Flesh-toned. With part of a wristband still attached.

And suddenly, the exam room faded away and I was eight years old again.

This was no ordinary plastic hand.

This was He-Man.

Those classic 1980s Masters of the Universe action figures were a huge part of my childhood. He-Man, Skeletor, Castle Grayskull—Saturday morning royalty. And apparently, decades later, still a choking hazard.

Max had chewed the hand clean off a He-Man figurine and lodged it between his molars like a tiny barbarian trophy.

Once removed, the smell made sense. The pain made sense. Everything made sense.

Max recovered uneventfully. As soon as the sedation wore off, he began eating like nothing had ever happened—because that’s how dogs roll. I explained everything to the owner, gave aftercare instructions, and sent Max home minus one piece of Eternian anatomy.

Case closed.

Or so I thought.

Two weeks later, Max returned.

Same presentation.

Same lethargy.

Same drool.

Same inability to close his mouth.

I stared at the chart. Surely not.

We sedated him again. Opened his mouth again.

And there it was.

Another plastic hand.

This time, the left one.

Same color. Same wristband. Same unmistakable origin.

Max had gone back for seconds.

Luckily, the fix was easy. Again. Max recovered. Again. Ate immediately. Again.

In veterinary medicine, you can prepare for parasites, infections, trauma, and disease—but nothing quite prepares you for a poodle repeatedly dismantling a childhood hero, one limb at a time. 

When the owner came to pick him up, I gave the usual aftercare instructions. Then I paused.

“Also,” I said, “please throw away the handless He-Man toy… before Max chews his feet off.”

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM