Ollie has lived for well over five years without any dental problems. His teeth have always been in excellent condition, even the Vet said so.
On Tuesday, he suddenly stopped eating his dinner, and sat down. He looked at me plaintively, so I checked his mouth, to see if something was stuck in his teeth. I was alarmed to discover that one of his top molars was loose. On further investigation, I could see that the large tooth was actually split in two, with the outer section easily moved by my finger. He wasn’t complaining though, and finished his dinner soon after.
The next day, I phoned the Vet. They made an appointment for Thursday, to check the tooth. Sure enough, it had broken in half, just held on by being secure in Ollie’s gums. The best guess was that he had chewed too hard on his plastic bone, ironically intended to promote dental heath. The Vet advised tooth removal, and booked Ollie in for an extraction on Friday morning. I took him in at 08:30, and he reluctantly walked off with the nurse, oblivious to what awaited, but undoubtedly suspicious.
I phoned at 1 pm, and was told it was all over, and he was doing well. I could collect him before 4.
When I arrived, he was dopey, and fed up. Not interested in pats or cuddles, he marched off to the car, eager to get in, and get home. Along with the enormous bill, (£300) the Vet gave me the tooth. It was a huge double molar, otherwise very healthy, save for the large split.
Ollie was not his old self at all. He took to his bed, and looked sideways at me, no doubt upset at his treatment, and being abandoned. Despite pain relief, he cried intermittently, and refused to wag his curly tail. I gave him his favourite meal, chicken and pasta, but he took almost two hours to eat any of it. He is now sitting grumpily beside me, in a half-doze. In ten days time, he has to go back for a check-up.
He’s not going to like that.