THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, December 12, 1994 TAG: 9412100005
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A13 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Opinion
SOURCE: George Hebert
LENGTH: Medium: 57 lines
Ever try to brush a cat's teeth?
Apparently it can be done. But even with poultry-flavored toothpaste (a neat wrinkle, yes?), it may not be easy.
The brushing assignment fell to us when the cat at our house developed dental problems.
Just a little over a month ago, my wife and I got the recommended treatment supplies. Included was that special toothpaste, in which the flavor of chicken and/or turkey is supposed to open sensory doors in much the same way as a minted dentifrice presumably does in the case of people.
We also got a hollow little cone of rubber with a patch of soft bristles on the end: Seated on one of our fingers, this was to be the vehicle for a gentle scrubbing of feline incisors, canines and molars.
According to our instructions, we were to work our way slowly toward a meaningful brushing. The first thing was to have the cat become familiar with fingers rubbing softly inside its mouth. Most specifically, according to the printed directions that came with the paste, we should use an approach that would make the experience pleasant and welcomed. For the cat, of course.
Then gradually the paste and rubber brush were to be introduced over a period of days, until finally we would be able to reach in without interference and brush all the areas that needed cleaning or stimulation. Deep in Debbie's mouth in our case. Yeah. Right.
Early in the process, Deb decided that nobody's finger, even the most gentle one, and even if accompanied by the most lovey-dovey human talk, was going to get past her clenched jaws. And even if we managed an unclenching, there was unrelenting resistance in other ways - through wild twistings, thrustings and pull-backs of the head, indignant spitting, hissing and even dog-style growls.
We tried coming up on her announced (with cuddly words) or unannounced; using a loose hold or a firm grip during our ministrations; moving the toothbrush finger airily in some attempts, positively in others. And all with the same failure of execution.
After several weeks of this, we finally gave up, opting for whatever the veterinarian could do, on the vet's premises.
When the idea of our brushing two jawfuls of cat teeth was first broached to us, I put this proposition, inwardly, in much the same category as the suggestion I read a while back in a pet column and wrote so skeptically about: that a vacuum cleaner might be used to lift the fleas off someone's pet kitty. As of now, I don't think my reaction either time was entirely unreasonable.
Somewhere out there in tabby-land, I concede there may be cats of such wise and easy-going temperament that they can be sweet-talked (make that poultry-flavor-talked) into tooth-brushings by amateurs.
But Deb isn't one of them. MEMO: Mr. Hebert is a former editor of The Ledger-Star. by CNB