Kitty Dentures; Or, Why My Cat Has No Teeth

 

This is Brie.

If you think she looks a little sad, you would be right. When this picture was taken, she was in so much pain that she had stopped eating. She would walk over to the food dish, sniff it a little, look around to see where I was, and meow plaintively.

We adopted Brie from the Humane Society in Mt. Pleasant in early 2007. She was nine months old and seemed afraid of everything. She also had some behavioral quirks; most notably, she didn't chew her food. When we first brought her home, we thought she swallowed her food whole because she was afraid there wouldn't be a next meal. Having a constant supply of dry food, however, didn't seem to make a difference, and for the five years we have owned her, she has never chewed her food. She also seems to lack a sense of smell. We didn't think it was that big of a deal, though, because she ate and played with our other cat as if everything was normal.

Over the past two years, however, it became clear just how problematic it is when a cat doesn't chew. She developed severe gingivitis. She stopped eating a few days before a week-long trip back to Michigan, so we took her with us for a vet appointment there. The doctor anesthetized her for an ultrasonic teeth cleaning procedure, after which he told us he had never seen a mouth that bad on a cat that young. He gave us antibiotics for her, and we went home.

But the problems became a cycle: she would feel better for awhile, and then her mouth would become red and irritated, sometimes with bleeding gums. Her breath smelled awful. She had trouble properly grooming herself. So we would return to the vet for a combination of injections: steroids and antibiotics, usually with an at-home antibiotic to be given over the following 2-4 weeks.

She hated the antibiotics. One kind was a bitter liquid we had to squirt into her mouth with a dropper. Another kind was a pill that she would inevitably spit out a few times. We became adept at forcing open her mouth, shoving the dropper or pill-popper (a cruel-looking wandlike device that shoots the pill down the cat's throat) far enough into her mouth that she couldn't dislodge it with her tongue. I have several scars on my arms and legs resulting from these treatments. Eventually, we started wrapping her in a towel before attempting to medicate her.

And then, a week and a half ago, she stopped eating again. She was clearly losing weight. She was clearly miserable. Her back teeth were blackish-gray. I took her back to the vet for the steroids and antibiotics, during which Brie screamed (!) and tried to bite the vet tech assisting the doctor. It was heartbreaking. But the doctor leveled with me: the best thing would be to remove as many teeth as was necessary to end the infections, so we wouldn't have to keep bringing Brie back and getting the injections.

We had broached the topic before, but the cost was staggering: cats have 30 teeth, and it could cost $35 per tooth, plus the fees for medications, boarding, etc. We were looking at possibly spending over $1,000 to make the cat healthy again. And I felt like a terrible, cruel, inhumane person every time I postponed the inevitable surgery, because as much she needed it, we had other expenses to consider.

This time, though, I couldn't put it off any longer. Something about the way Brie seemed to have completely given up made it impossible for me to keep her waiting. I scheduled the surgery (without consulting Aaron) and drove home, panicking a little. I knew I had made the right decision, but I didn't know where the money would come from. When I called him, he understood, reassuring me that it was okay.

In the days leading up to the surgery, I tried to be as kind as possible to Brie. The steroids and antibiotics had already taken effect, to the point where she gained nearly a pound in less than a week because she was eating so much. Two days before the surgery, I fed her chicken-flavored baby food from a spoon, and she didn't have to share with Muenster.

We dropped her off Monday afternoon for a Tuesday morning surgery. When the procedure was over, the vet called me to say Brie was awake and very "talkative." They had removed 23 teeth, and since seven had already fallen out on their own, our cat was now completely toothless. When the vet tech brought her into the room where we waited, Brie seemed a little dazed, but eager to see us.

It's sometimes hard to know if pets understand our motivations. But it seems like Brie knows that now, despite having no teeth, she is much better off.

And she will never again bite the hand that feeds her.