Creek Running North

Harley left a carrot untouched in his cage overnight. This is never a good sign. I picked him up this morning, looked into his mouth, and saw one of his lower incisors had grown far too long and crooked once again.

Since the last time he went to the vet, when the vet said his mandibular joints had deteriorated completely, he has been eating more or less the way the bumblebee in that urban legend flies: by not being smart enough to realize he couldn’t. Lower jaw held in place by muscles attached to scar tissue, and still he’s worked his way through the last four months worth of carrots and kale.

We called the vet this morning. I’m taking him in on Tuesday. It’s possible they’ll say that since it’s a front tooth, they should be able to trim it without further dislocating his jaw. Or we may have to make an unpleasant decision. I’m steeled to tell them to put him down, if necessary. It’s complex. With an animal that enjoyed life less, it might be a bit more straightforward a choice. But Harley’s sheer and utter delight in just being alive has me second-guessing myself a bit. Of all the animals I’ve ever lived with, he’s the one most likely to want to live — even in a bit of discomfort — just so that he can eat a few more vegetables.