The Rodentist

 
Ouch. It always starts with that, anyway.
 
Recently I noticed a pain in my right incisor. It started with a dull ache while chewing through drywall and progressed to the point to where I couldn’t even nibble my way through soft cheeses like brie without my whiskers whimpering wildly! It just so happens that I have an aversion to anybody in the medical field (don’t get me started on the veterinarian), but when I noticed I could no longer even smile and squeak “cheese” for pictures without howling in pain, I knew I had no choice but to visit the rodentist.
 
He was nice enough, I suppose, and as is expected of a critter in his vocation, his incisors were perfectly straight and sparkling white. I found it quite unpleasant, however, when he put his paws in my mouth and started scratching around. Every time one of his claws hit my sore tooth I squealed in agony, and was all I could do not to scuttle out of his office burrow right then and there!
 
Thankfully it didn’t take him long to make a diagnosis, and he proceeded to squeak me all about cavities and the importance of gnawing to keep my incisors trimmed. He admonished me for not brushing my teeth after eating cheesecake, and nearly laughed his whiskers off when I requested that the filling he put in be made of Parmesan. (What? It’s a hard cheese!) In the end I ended up with the standard composite resin filling and a new toothbrush to make my chompers as pearly white as those of my toothy caretaker’s. I also left with a warning: care for my teeth, the rodentist squeaked, or I’ll wind up chomping cheesecake with dentures!
 
Keepinʼ it squeak,
Bob