Dog Breath

You know, I’m beginning to get suspicious.  I think we’ve been had.

By Buddy.

My stinky-breath dog nephew, Buddy.

It kind of reminds me of Linda’s pre-school days.  It took a while for me to realize that I had to get very specific with my questions if I wanted honest answers. 

“Linda, did you brush your teeth?” always got an affirmative answer from her.  It wasn’t until I noticed that her toothbrush was as dry as one of my baked chicken breasts (another story), that I decided to ask the follow-up question.

“Linda, when did you brush your teeth?”

“I don’t remember.  But I brushed them before.”

From that day on I changed my approach, “Linda, did you brush your teeth tonight with water and toothpaste while singing your A-B-Cs in your head?"

Yeah.  This kind of reminds me of sneaky, under-handed  Linda and her toothbrush aversion.

My sister Jan had gotten an estimate from the vet for cleaning 12-year old Buddy’s teeth, which had never been cleaned.  Ever. To say he had dog breath was an understatement.  I got my first got a whiff of it when we turned into Jan’s neighborhood. 

“$500 to $900 to get a dog’s teeth cleaned?” she moaned. "That's outrageous!"

“But it’s a good investment.  You’re home value will probably go up as a result,” I offered helpfully.

That's when I had my scathingly brilliant idea.  If we were to brush Buddy's teeth prior to his dental procedure, we could possibly chip a few hundred dollars off the cost (no pun intended).  Jan agreed.

Little did we know that Buddy was eavesdropping.

Jan and I went out shopping for supplies: a doggie tooth brush,  chicken flavored tooth paste, a surgeon's head light, face masks and goggles.

When we returned home the patient was nowhere to be found. 

Let's just say Buddy was not a brave dog. 

Jan found him cowering behind her bed.  She put on her face mask and goggles and set Buddy on her lap. 

"I don't think Buddy's feeling well,"  Jan said sympathetically.  "I think he's got a fever."   

She aborted the mission.

"He's faking it, Jan!" I said. "Haven't you ever seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off?"

But the next day Jan took Buddy to the vet who informed her that poor Buddy had a sudden onset of some very serious auto-immune disease and that he might not make it through the weekend. 

For the next week Buddy was carried wherever he chose to go.  He lay on a satin pillow, was hand fed baby food, and coddled like a newborn.  Finally the vet said he was out of the woods. 

"And, Jan", he added, "Let's not worry about his teeth."

I don't know how he pulled it off, but I can tell you one thing.  Buddy's a stinkin' genius.

Literally.