Some pussy cats just have bad teeth. It’s not their fault. And it’s not their people’s fault. It’s more or less the fault of their trifling ass birth parents and their no count genetics. John took Lenny- the best baby boy-o in the world- to Dr. Norris this morning to have the Lenster’s teeth cleaned. We were hoping he’d be okay to come home tonight, but they had to remove six teeth (!!!) and he was still really groggy when we called this evening to check on him, so Lenny’s spending the night at the kitty hospital. He’s always had stank breath, but he’s never had any problem chewing so far as we could tell. And he’s only two years old, not really the age you’d expect for such terrible tooth troubles. I had just started noticing that whenever I’d scratch his chin in certain areas, he’d do an almost involuntary chatter. Like nerves were jumping. So I pried his mouth open and took a look inside and sure enough, red puffy gums. Dr. Norris has assured us that he’ll be better than ever now. I said, “Lookit, lady! This is my precious baby boy-o and if you don’t make him well I’m gonna strike down upon you like the hand of God!”. Not really. I didn’t say that. In fact, I wasn’t even there. Instead, John told her, “This one’s Jan’s favorite. Try not to kill him, okay?”.