Monday I had to go to the dentist. I have a very interesting dentist, in my opinion.

Since I can't tell you his name for fear of advertising in a column, I will just tell you this: He has worked on such famed mouths as Moses, Noah and Methuselah.

I hope he doesn't read my column or I will have a very bad visit next time I go to see him. Actually, he is an excellent dentist, in my opinion.

It all started on Sunday. I remember watching the football game, with a sympathy towel tied around my head and a glass of water, room temperature, by my side. Perhaps I should have been more concerned about my nation and national remembrance ceremonies and Islamic jihad, but right then, I had a toothache.

Isn't that honesty, for you? When it came right down to it, I cared more about my toothache than any of those things. So would you, if you had it.

If I was in a position of making a difference, such as being on the front line of the war on terrorism in combat fatigues, I would most likely have to be a little tougher. However, when on the front line of the recliner watching a football game, I had no problem being absorbed in my own little problems.

As for the tooth, it is a back wisdom tooth, one of those things that is put in our mouths to give us the wisdom of how to deal with intense pain. That's the only explanation I can come up with for their placement. After all, they aren't really practically placed for chewing or brushing.

I do know, like horses, our teeth can be indicators of our age. However, unlike horses, I grew up on a steady diet of Double Cola, Moon Pies and Red Bird Stick candy. We sometimes got RC when it was on sale. Soda pop was one thing I never wanted for as I grew up. Now, I prefer clean water to Pepsi. Even so, the damage is already done. I have about 21 teeth and roughly 17 fillings as it is, by Monday morning I was ready to drop another one into the good old dentist's careful and competent hands, or pliers, as the case may be.

The good thing about him is that he will see me on demand within a couple weeks and he really does a bang-up job for a reasonable price. So, as he pumps the foot pedal on the chair or cranks up the drill with the woven fabric cord, I try to think of more pleasant thoughts, like my wallet being more laden with old green photos of Thomas Jefferson.

It is a bit of a drive to get to his office, but I haven't had much success at getting in to see the local dentists with any regularity. Not that they are not quality folks, quite the opposite. They are just too busy. We need another dentist, one that won't quit in the first six months.

Anyhow, I heard about this guy from a friend of mine who makes me look like a spend thrift. "You might not really enjoy it, but you'll love the bill," he said.

As I was saying earlier, my dentist is an older fellow who started working on people around the bombing of Pearl Harbor or so. The dusty magazines in his front office still have pictures of President Eisenhower (I like Ike!) on the cover.

It really is much more interesting for me that the latest copy of Boy's Life or Creative Quiltmaking, but you know what I mean.

Don't get me wrong, I would take him over three or four who just started after September 11.

He has a real leather and porcelain chair and instruments that would look more at place in a Nazi concentration camp. Perhaps that was just my perception as I walked in, the typical fear of dentistry well within the scope of my awareness.

He uses his instruments with a skill and prowess that only a man with many necklaces of teeth could possibly profess. He has already pulled one tooth for me in the time honored tradition. He also has enough sense that he doesn't try to talk to me while he works on my teeth. I hate that. My last dentist was bad for stuff like that, asking questions with his hands in my mouth. "You been doing alright?"

"Hrmhph haojf oofing ine," I would respond, meaning, "Yes, I have been doing fine."

This fellow doesn't use all of those new fangled suction things that fit under the tongue and feel like a walking cane hanging off the chin, either.

After shooting my upper gum line full of novocaine, he asked me if I could feel anything. Drooling slightly, I responded with a slobbery shake of my head. Now I know how a basset hound feels and he knows how their owners feel.

He gave me a paper towel and a bib and left the room, with the instruction, "Go ahead and spit."

Have you ever tried to spit after being injected with large amounts of novocaine? It isn't something that can be done with ease. I just held my head over his tiny porcelain toilet bowl thing and dribbled into the swirling water while making blowing sounds. My lips didn't want to work together to actually do the spitting required, so I tried to salvage my dignity by wiping my useless lips and sitting back in the chair to await my fate. When the doc returned, I found myself talking like the fellow with the 'boggin on his head on the Fat Albert Show. I won't torture you with a demonstration, other than to say that I told him "My libs arbent worbing anybore."

He reassured me with a nod and smile and then got out a device that looked like a center punch or nail set. I kept looking for the hammer to come, but it never did. Even so, I could hear noises that were disconcerting — noises that would normally accompany intense pain, I feel sure. I didn't feel a thing, unless you count the pressure on my jaw or the novocaine working its way back towards my ears. I wondered if it would make a body deaf to have numb ears, but it thankfully stopped before getting that far. Soon it got out the big Vise Grips and started rocking my head back and forth with a slow and deliberate tug, his face intent on his work. Soon he had the fruit of his labor, a broken old tired tooth."That should be about it," he said after digging around with a pick-looking thing. He then let me ‘spit' again. I never felt a thing.

For a while there, I was wondering if I would ever feel a thing again. After writing me a couple of prescriptions, one of which was to keep infection out and another to ease pain, I was on my way out of his office. I try to avoid the dentist as much as I can. However, as I paid the bill and left his office, I was very thankful indeed that he has yet to retire. I hope he never does.

I don't think I could stand modern dentistry, knowing that I am paying for some high-tech electric chair and fancy-shmancy devices that the dentist never needed to start with.

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