When your human leaves the house without you. When the vacuum cleaner comes out of the closet. When someone says, “Who’s ready for a bath?”

And then there is the greatest betrayal of all. Dental Day.

Now, let me explain something. I am a dog of refinement. I maintain impeccable standards of personal hygiene. I lick my paws. I wash my face. I occasionally groom my mother whether she wants me to or not. If something smells questionable, I sniff it thoroughly before making any decisions. This system has worked beautifully for almost 7 years. Yet apparently my Co-Pilot has been secretly discussing my mouth with strangers.

(Check here for more CO-Pilot!)

Last week at my annual appointment with my vet, I heard these dreaded words. “She needs her teeth cleaned.” Excuse me? Who asked you?

Then yesterday morning I noticed something peculiar. Breakfast never arrived. At first I assumed there had been a clerical error in the kitchen. It happens. Humans are not known for their organizational skills.

I sat politely. Then less politely. Then I stared directly into my mother’s soul. Nothing. No breakfast. No treats. Not even one tiny pity biscuit for a successful morning constitutional walk. Instead she smiled that smile. The one that says, “You’ll thank me later.” For the record, no one has ever thanked anyone later for withholding breakfast.

Then she cheerfully announced, “Let’s go for a ride!” Friends, when someone who has forgotten to feed you suddenly becomes enthusiastic about a car ride, you should be suspicious. Very suspicious. Still, I climbed in my co-pilot’s seat in the car because I am an optimist. Also because I enjoy sticking my nose out the window and judging pedestrians.

Then we made the turn that only leads to the vet’s office. Suddenly the world smelled like fear. Upon arrival, my world was suddenly changed. Looking back, there were signs. People were smiling too much. They kept calling me “sweet girl,” and talking about my adventures on the Bark Bus. Whenever humans start using unusually tender voices, disaster is rarely far behind.

Then someone who used to be my friend, Peyton (yes, I am publicly outing her) clipped on another leash. Mom said, “I’ll see you later.” Wait. What? You are leaving? Without me? I gave her my famous expression. She one that says, “Surely you’ve made an administrative mistake.” She left anyway. I watched her walk out the door. I made a note. There would be consequences.

The next thing I remember, Peyton offered me affection. I accepted. Then someone else scratched behind my ears. Excellent.

Then…

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. One minute I was awake. The next I was floating through what can only be described as a very strange dream involving tennis balls the size of Buicks and squirrels who quoted Shakespeare.

When I finally opened my eyes, everything felt… Odd. My legs belonged to someone else. My tongue had grown three sizes. And my mouth felt as though an entire housekeeping staff had moved in while I was asleep. I licked my teeth. Wait. Something was different. Everything felt… Smooth.

Suspiciously smooth. Where had all my plaque gone? Now before you answer that question, let me remind you that plaque is not just “buildup.” It is history. It is biography. Every Milk-Bone. Every bite of chicken. Every unfortunate encounter with an overcooked biscuit. Years of carefully curated memories had vanished.

Erased. While I was unconscious. If this isn’t theft, I don’t know what is.

My mom arrived looking entirely too pleased with herself. “They said you did great!” Did I? Did I agree to this? Was there paperwork? I certainly didn’t fill out anything. Did anyone explain the procedure in terms a reasonably intelligent canine could understand? I think not. She rubbed my head. “Oh, your teeth are beautiful.”

Beautiful? That wasn’t the assignment. The assignment was loyalty. The assignment was preserving the evidence of a life well lived.

Do you know what else they stole? My dignity. I stumbled toward the car like Bambi on ice. My mom kept trying to reassure me, saying, “It’s okay.” Easy for her to say. No one had secretly polished her molars.

When we got home, I attempted to file a formal complaint. Unfortunately, it came out sounding like, “Bllllrrrfff.” Apparently anesthesia weakens one’s legal arguments.

I slept. A lot. Every time I woke up, Mom looked at me with those sympathetic eyes
humans reserve for children and people recovering from colonoscopies.

She even let me nap wherever I wanted (not that I don’t do that anyway…but this time no complaints). The couch. The rug. Halfway across the hallway. Interesting.

Perhaps I had more negotiating power than I realized. By evening my mouth actually felt… better. Not that I intended to admit such a thing publicly. A lady has principles. Still, chewing seemed easier. My breath no longer smelled like I’d been storing old squirrels in my cheeks.

Again—not admitting anything. Just making observations.

The next morning I marched into the kitchen. My breakfast appeared immediately.

Excellent. Order had been restored. I inspected my co-pilot’s face carefully. She looked relieved. That seemed appropriate. After all, she had narrowly escaped permanent probation. I forgave her. Mostly. I still reserve the right to bring up Dental Day whenever negotiations over treats become necessary. “You remember the plaque incident?” It works every time.

A day removed from the entire experience, I suppose Mom wasn’t trying to betray me. She was trying to take care of me. Humans have an odd way of showing love.

Sometimes it looks like belly rubs. Sometimes it looks like sharing the couch.

Sometimes it looks like driving across town so complete strangers can steal years of perfectly good plaque from your mouth while you are unconscious.

I don’t pretend to understand it. I only know this: Love isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes love brushes your teeth while you’re asleep. And sometimes, apparently, love means letting someone steal your dental history and then buying you toothbrush-shaped treats to make up for it.

Which brings me to an important point. I have been told that my teeth are now beautiful. I am not sure how I feel about that. A lady should never be defined by her appearance. But I will admit that chewing seems easier. My breath is considerably less offensive. And Mom appears to be very pleased with my new smile.

So perhaps I will allow her to believe she did the right thing. After all, she did drive me home. She did let me sleep wherever I wanted. She did provide immediate breakfast the next morning.

And she bought the little green toothbrush treats. I am nothing if not capable of forgiveness.

Someone at camp has already told Phoebe, the well-groomed standard poodle, that I handled the whole thing “like a champ.” She is kind of a blabbermouth, and that sort of rumor could ruin me. I have standards.

Besides, there are squirrels outside who desperately need supervision. And my co- pilot is opening a special new bag of treats that look like little green toothbrushes.

Purely for medicinal purposes, of course. I have a reputation to maintain. And apparently, a smile to show off. Just don’t call it a smile. It’s a strategic display of dental superiority.

*I am not old enough to have a phone but I have included what I think my new smile must
look like for your viewing pleasure.

Amy George is an Episcopal priest in Selma, Alabama, where she shares an office with her volunteer pastoral care assistant, Winnie Lew. When not doing God’s work, you can find Amy doing Dog’s work–vacuuming a never ending supply of dog hair, chauffeuring Winnie Lew, and being the provider of endless dog treats. Amy feels blessed to have no fear of ever being attacked by squirrels, UPS delivery people, or small lizards.