As well as being very worried about letting me drive his car, he had a lifelong fear of Dentists. He would rather suffer excrutiating toothache with 2 aspirins and a half glass of whiskey than cross the portals of Dentistry and continued to suffer in silence until he was in his early fifties when somebody at work finally mentioned his bad teeth. That day he made an appointment and it came as no surprise that he had to have every tooth in his head out in one go.
It came back to me yesterday when we took little Oz in to have "a few teeth" removed and he actually had 22 removed, leaving just 2. The Terrierist has been disarmed, although he's always been disarming.
A sorry little face was waiting for us last night and I detected a glint of menace in his eyes aimed at me as his preferred suspect instigator of this sad gum-fest. Most unfair as it was everyone else who recoiled from his breath, not me. He's starting to come to terms this morning and has already been out for the usual morning barkathon with the labradors next door.
He's currently sitting on a special new basket being hand-fed soft garlic cheese (with the odd antibiotic and pain-killer thrown in) by Mrs Rine.
Funnily enough, so am I.