Teeth: The necessary horror show

    Come on.  Be honest.  Is there anyone, anywhere on this spinning planet, who actually enjoys going to the dentist?  I'm not talking about liking your dentist as a person.  Mine have been perfectly pleasant, some even family friends.  But enjoying the experience of reclining helplessly while someone approaches your open mount with metal tools that look like they were borrowed from a medieval torture museum?  No.  Absolutely not.

    And yet, like a dutiful citizen with a survival instinct, I show up.  I know that maintaining teeth is essential to general health, including heart maintenance.  (Nothing says trouble like plaque and arteries.) 

    Horses feel the same way about dentistry.  They may adore the veterinarian, but the moment the dental kit appears, their eyes widen with the same expression I get when my dentist says, "You might feel a little pinch."  Over the years we have learned that equine teeth are extremely important.  If you cannot chew, eating becomes problematic for horses and humans alike.  But horses do not get to cancel their appointments by claiming they might be coming down with something.

    I try to have my horses inspected every six months.  I'm negligent, but no more than any other horse partner who has ever looked at a calendar and thought, "Surely it hasn't been that long."  It has.  It always has. 

    My personal library is full of horse books: fiction, nonfiction, training manuals and memoirs.  However, equine teeth rarely get more than a polite nod.  Most books are far more interested in teaching you how to guess a horse's age by inspecting their teeth.  I have never mastered the trick.  My vets assure me it's more a general guideline anyway, which is comforting because I have never wanted to pry open a horse's mouth and squint at incisors like a fortune teller reading enamel tea leaves. 

    Google, of course, is more informative.  My books vaguely say horses have "about 40 teeth."  About?  Online I learned that male horses can have 40-44 teeth, while females usually have 36-40.  Apparently genetics plays a role, which means some horses are simply over or underachievers in the dental department. 

    I've always been fascinated by the fact that adult horse teeth continue to grow.  Until I lost a molar, I didn't realize human teeth do this too, just not with the same enthusiasm. (I really do like my present dentist who explained this to me.  I just do not like the procedure.  Or the chair.  Or the suction tube that sounds like it's trying to steal my soul.)

    Back in the old days, before the 1990s, when equine dentistry became a specialty, my concern about horse teeth was minimal.  I can't remember why I decided our old Quarter Horse, Jodee, needed her teeth inspected, but I do remember Dr. S. coming out to float her teeth.  He knew her impeccable manners, and decided to treat her without anesthetic.  Then came the moment that still haunts me.

    He grabbed Jodee's tongue and commenced sawing away in her mouth with the files. 

    She tolerated it with long-suffering patience.  I, on the other hand, nearly needed a sedative.

    Then came Spice and his legendary wolf teeth.  When Dr. B. attempted to remove them he grunted under Spice's jaw and said, "I have never seen wolf teeth so large or firmly entrenched in any horse's mouth."

    This is not what you want to hear from a professional holding pliers inside your pony's mouth.

 

    I ended up using a bit-less bridle most of the time. Spice forgave me ordering the extraction, but only because horses are impish saints.

    By the 1990s, equine dentistry had exploded: articles everywhere, specialists popping up like mushrooms after rain.  One lived near us, but his rates were worse that a cardiologist's.  I called Dr B. instead.  He had attended classes and was now equipped for modern equine dentistry.  Bless that man.

    Now my vets arrive with anesthetics, files, drills, headlamps, mirrors and a mouth speculum that looks suspiciously like the one my dentist uses on me - just scaled up to prehistoric herbivore size.  The horse is positioned on a headrest like a patient in a very tall, very judgmental backward dentist's chair.  There are electric tools .  There are sounds.  There are smells.  The whole thing feels like a cross between a spa day and a horror film. 

    Horse teeth don't always get the respect they deserve.  That is changing.  We all need to see a dentist.  I just wish it was more comfortable, and less reminiscent of a scene where someone says, "You might feel a little pinch," right before the soundtrack turns ominous. 

 

     

Gotcha

    Our diligent gardener had never called me before.  She always texted.  This time, she called, and tried hard to stay calm.  It didn't work.  Her voice had the same pitch as someone discovering a raccoon in their pantry wearing their slippers.  

    She had a horse issue.

    Let us rewind.

    My husband had an appointment with the optometrist, and was under the tragic misconception that he would be blinded by dilation drops and require a chauffeur.  Naturally, I was drafted.  As it turned out, the appointment was a quick in-and-out; no drops, no drama.  So we headed to one of our favorite Asian restaurants to pick up food for later in the day.     

    We had already ordered when the gardener called.  My husband was hunched over his check register, tongue slightly out, balancing numbers with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.  His checkbook is sacred territory.  I do not touch it.  I do not breathe near it.

    Our faithful employee breathlessly reported that while she was dumping weeds in the pasture corner, one of the horses bumped the gate and made a break for it.  At the moment, the escapee was in our backyard, blissfully mowing the lawn we had allowed to grow into a lush, three-day, post-rain jungle.

    Our gardener knows weeds, but not horses.  It took a game of Twenty Questions to identify the fugitive.  I already guessed Snickers.  Of course.  She is pushy even on her best days, and she has the moral flexibility of a toddler in a candy aisle. 

 

    Meanwhile, the gardener was explaining, in gasps, that she had to pick up her daughter from the bus stop, and she had waited to long to alert the school she would be late, and she had absolutely no idea how to catch a horse.  She sounded like she was reporting a hostage situation.

    My husband, suddenly cured of selective hearing, perked up.  "Loose horse?"  He looked wildly toward the counter where our food should appear.  His checkbook must have been balanced, because he was no longer guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. 

    I assured the gardener she could leave.  One thing I know: a lone horse who has escaped rarely wants to leave her friends, especially when she is standing in a buffet of premium grass.  We were twenty minutes from home, and the restaurant manager had just assured my husband our food was three minutes from being bagged. 

    In record time, hot sacks in hand, we bolted for the door.  The manager called after us, "Hope you catch your horse!" as if we were heading into battle.

    My husband asked if I needed grain.  No.  Horse treats were my weapon of choice.  I told him he would need to stay with the car.  The horses are not fond of him.  He tends to yell, and they do not appreciate his leadership style.

    We parked to create a slight barrier.  

    There was Snickers, head up, acknowledging us with the smugness of someone who has successfully hacked the system.  Then she went right back to grazing.

    I briskly walked to the barn, careful not to run.  Running is a rookie mistake.  Snickers ignored me on the way across, but when I returned with a halter and rope, she raised her head to lock eyes.  I approached casually like a disinterested observer of local fauna.

    She continued to stare at me.  She fixated on the horse cookie in my hand.  The cookie won.

    She strolled over, took the treat, and while she was still chewing, I slipped the rope around her neck.  She didn't care.  She was focused on my treat-stuffed pocket like a furry pickpocket.  I causally slid the halter over her nose.

    Gotcha! 

    She followed me back to the pasture, belly full, ego inflated, and absolutely certain she had outsmarted the gardener to enjoy a private feast.

    I texted the gardener:  all good, horse retrieved, no casualties.

    Being the wise woman she is, she asked for a lesson on catching a loose horse.  The next day, I showed her the treats, the ropes, the halters, and emphasized the golden rule: never run after a horse.  Strolling is the correct speed.  Preferably with a pocket of horse approved snacks.

    But really, I doubt she will need the lesson.

    My husband has installed a strand of electric fencing across the gate opening.  It should discourage a horse.

    Perhaps.

    Maybe.

    But that grass is very, very green.