After Lilly, our Boston terrier, had her teeth cleaned two-and-a-half-years ago, I vowed to keep the tartar away with regular brushing.
That vow dissolved the very first time I squeezed a rubberized finger brush between her reluctant flews. I managed two horizontal strokes before Lilly thrashed, tearing the brush off my right index finger — along with a corner of my fingernail. Apparently, she found that “Irresistibly” chicken flavored toothpaste quite resistible.
I made a second vow to try again, this time against a backdrop of new age music and a couple drops of pet CBD. Failing that, a gong bath amid swirls of Tibetan incense.
Weeks became months. My mom died. Soon thereafter, I retired from my 20-year career. My wife, Susan, Lilly and I moved a thousand miles away from everything — and everyone — familiar. All the while, my second vow shrank to a speck in my rear view mirror.
Several weeks ago, we took Lilly in for her annual check. Her breath had turned foul. I winced, more from my abandoned vow than from the vapors blooming from whatever bacterial cocktail brewed beneath her gums. Another cleaning was scheduled.
The morning I dropped Lilly off, the tech asked me if I wished to be called if any teeth needed pulling. I swallowed hard at that prospect, then acquiesced. Our girl was getting old. I mean, how bad could it be if one . . . two . . .
Ten teeth needed pulling! I dropped my cellphone, The new crack in its face flawlessly traced the fresh one in my heart. Lilly’s trust in me was implicit. And I’d let her down. I was soft in the way she needed me to be firm.
I barely listened when the doctor told me that brachycephalic dogs are prone to tooth crowding, especially in the posterior upper ridge. These teeth were gnarled and twisted in Lilly’s sockets. Unlikely that they’d escape decay even with the most vigorous hygiene. Also, three top front teeth and two bottoms had to go.
Cosmetic changes were the least of our concerns. Lilly had a spate of post-op nausea and vomiting lasting nearly a week. Great shudders shook her tiny frame. She’s bounced back and forth between home and the vet’s three times, swallowed a drugstore and got pumped with a camel-hump full of fluids. Some meds were cloaked in tiny chicken pill-pockets, others squirted into the back of her mouth via syringe doubling as a crowbar. On Thursday, she gobbled her first, modest meal without my our having to hold her upright to prevent heaving. She’s playing with mommy and daddy. She’s smiling again — the frontal gaps reminiscent more of a jack-o-lantern than a Cheshire cat.
We’re breathing easier, but we’re not off the hook. No reasons excuse neglect of dental care. Periodontal disease in dogs and cats can promote heart, liver and kidney failure and permanently change their menu and mood. Older animals may have a rougher recovery from anesthesia needed for deep scaling. We want to save Lilly from unnecessary trauma going forward.
I can wallow in guilt, which serves no one. Or, I can steer toward vow number three: The day those sutures heal, the music will mellow, the brush will come out, and — one way or another — daddy will become Lilly’s favorite dental hygienist.