Recently, out of nowhere, one of Cricket’s front teeth started to stick out. When she was really tired one night, she let me touch the tooth, and it moved. She is eight years old, middle aged for a dog, so losing teeth now is a permanent thing.
I worry that this happened because of all of the weeding I let her do earlier in the summer, grabbing and tearing and chewing tough roots out of the ground. She’s not a working dog; she just liked the challenge, and the flavor, of the weeds.
After the first tooth disappeared, the second tooth, right next to it, pressed forward and stuck out – kind of like her teeth were giving me the middle finger (which is very much in character for little miss Cricket).
The second tooth stayed like that for a few days and then it disappeared too. I have no idea where Cricket’s lost teeth went. Most likely she swallowed them and pooped them out. I have not been searching through her poop for evidence, though. The problem is that there are no teeth to put under her pillow for the tooth fairy, and she sleeps in so many different places, and without a pillow, so I’m not sure how the tooth fairy would know where to put her treasure anyway.
I should take Cricket to the vet, but I’m reluctant to put her through the trauma – she loses at least half a pound just from shaking herself silly in the waiting room. And Cricket doesn’t seem to be suffering. She has all of her strength and spring and energy. She certainly hasn’t lost her voice. She sleeps and eats and poops and pees, just like always. And those two little teeth were always crowded and crossed over each other. But, what if she loses more teeth and has to struggle to chew her chicken treats? Chicken treats and Grandma are what Cricket wakes up for in the morning.
I think what’s upsetting me about the lost teeth, though, is that at eight years old, Cricket isn’t really a puppy anymore. She is getting older. I think about mortality too much; my own, a little bit, but more the mortality of the people and dogs that I love, so this sign of frailty in Cricket hits a nerve.
Cricket’s expected life span is eighteen to twenty years, but eventually she will be an old lady, and she’ll be the curmudgeonly type, rather than the sweet old lady in the rocking chair. She won’t be able to jump up as easily, and if she wants to get on the couch or the bed she’ll have to let me pick her up, or learn how to use the doggy steps, and she won’t like that. She will, of course, continue her crazy barking to the end, just at a lower pitch, like a smoker’s cough.
I knew an elderly Cocker Spaniel who rode around in a dog carriage and barked his commentary at the neighborhood as he passed by – a deep, flemmy, insistent bark from his royal transport. Cricket would love to do that.
Eventually, Mom and Cricket are going to be old ladies together. They’ll both have to wear slipper socks and housedresses, and they’ll complain about heartburn and digestive issues. I’ve had previews of this when Mom gets a cold and Cricket curls up with her on her bed and acts sick too. They need tea and toast and special treats brought to them, and they grumble and mumble and whine to each other between naps.
So, I’m kinda hoping Cricket, and Mom, can hold off on the aging thing for a while longer. Maybe another thirty years?