Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Dad Always Told Me I Should Be a Vet

My poor little Stuart's tooth needed to be operated on. Pulled, grinded down, something. His fang had grown into his cheek and my piggy was hurtin! From past experience, I know that his tooth should've broken or worn down because that's what happened on the other side of his mouth.

A couple of weeks ago, I was feeling extra sorry for Stu. I grabbed some plier type tool, and some other pincher type tool, and I was going to get me a tooth. I sneaked up on the poor guy while he was sleeping and grabbed hold of that tooth with what I later learned were channel locks. Then we did a little dance, kind of like riding a mechanical bull, Stu squealed a bit and all of a sudden - SNAP!

Stuart looked at me and made this sound "UUUUURRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMGGGGGGGG", then breathed the biggest sigh. I know in his heart he was saying "Thank you mommy, I feel so much better now that my fang is no longer digging into my cheek."

I gave him a big bowl of grapes and he's still my best friend. He still scares the shit out of everyone else, because he's a 300 lb. pet with huge fangs. Terry had been avoiding the task of pig dentistry because he said it was a 4 man job. (Or 1 WOMAN.)

Anyway, I kept the tooth. I soaked it in alcohol to kill the germs and I'm going to make it into a weapon. To signify my strength. Whatever, to signify that I'm nuts. That pig could've killed me when I did that.

Well crap. I wanted to put a picture of Stuart in here, but I can't find one.


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