The Sad Case of the Eaten Tooth

Here’s what happened, I’m pretty sure. I’m dreaming the sweet dream, the one with Katharine Ross at Super Bowl VII.

Midway through the second quarter, I call timeout and marry her on the spot. No tux. Just me in my Vikings uniform and her in that cotton thing she wore in “Butch Cassidy.” It’s a pretty common dream. Most men have it.

When suddenly, some kid awakens me from this dream and climbs into bed with us. Me and my first wife. The kid and her stupid teddy bear.

“What’s wrong?”

“I lost a tooth,” the little girl says, and the wife pulls back the covers.

I take the tooth, put it on the nightstand where it is safe, next to the 11 books I’m reading all at once. In minutes, I drop back to sleep, hoping to catch the third quarter and a postgame honeymoon.

No luck. The wedding is over. Katharine Ross has left me for a linebacker. The game is out of reach. The cheerleaders have stretch marks.

So I awaken to hear the dog sniffing around. He is standing on my chest and snorting around the nightstand.

He is standing with a back foot on my clavicle because it gives him better access to the baby tooth. He has a front foot on my windpipe to kill me.

Because he just ate the baby tooth. And if he doesn’t kill me, he knows I’ll probably kill him. Talk about your dog days. It’s a dad-eat-dog world.

“Hey!” I yell too late.

So the dog swallows the baby tooth. Smiles at me. Licks his lips, like he’s just been sipping Jack Daniels. Normally, he doesn’t drink till later in the day.

It’s the same smile Katharine Ross gave me in the dream, except the dog of course is naked. And not the least bit ashamed.

“He ate my tooth!” the little girl screams. “Mom, he ate my tooth!”

“Hey!” I yell again as the dog jumps off the bed. He was last spotted in Toledo. Headed for New York.

Actually, the little girl was pretty good about it. She cried for only two hours. I soothed her with those blueberry pancakes I make from scratch, into which her tears fell. My pancakes are largely inedible but strangely absorbent. I think it’s the flour I use.

“Want some orange juice?” I ask.

“Syrup?” she says.

“I’ll get the syrup,” I say.

It takes me, as always, a few minutes to find the syrup in the refrigerator, even though it’s generally in the same place every time, along the door with the salad dressings and the horseradish.

“There it is,” I say proudly as I reach for the syrup.

“You amaze me,” my wife says.

“In what sense?” I say, because I don’t get that every day.

“You just amaze me,” she says, shaking her head.

And I think back over the last 12 hours to figure out what I did--besides maybe finding the syrup--that was so special.

All I can remember is how in the middle of the night, the little girl lost that tooth and I put it on the nightstand. Then, first thing in the morning, the dog climbed up on my chest and ate the tooth. An hour after the crime, the wet spot on the nightstand was still wet.

“I never knew dogs ate teeth,” I tell my wife.

“Only if you leave them lying around,” she says.

Now, like most guys, I value emotional honestly over all else. So I say nothing. For a minute I say nothing. Sometimes silence is as honest as you can get.

“You know, if she brushed her teeth ... ,” I say.

“I brush,” says the little girl.

“If your teeth were cleaner, the dog wouldn’t be eating them,” I say.

“I brush,” insists the little girl.

“You’re a good brusher,” I tell her.

“Thanks,” she says.

She cried for only two more hours, then bounced back good as new and had some lunch, chewing on one side of her face.

Which is where we are now, at the lunch table, trying to figure out how I am amazing.

“Mom says I’m amazing,” I tell the boy.

“You?”

“Yeah, me,” I say.

“I think she’s just joking,” he says.

“But what if she’s not?” I say.

“I think you need a vacation,” he says.

We all need a vacation. You do. I do. Our kids do. Our dogs.

We need a vacation because our kids, softened by summer, have started behaving like the children of some third-rate monarchy. Sleepy, with a complete lack of ambition. Much like me.

We need a vacation because we just discovered that the tomato plants are sterile. Seventy-five bucks I spent to buy, plant and fertilize eight beautiful plants.

Sterile.

We need a vacation because we take the kids to see “Legally Blonde,” and the ticket stub reads “Legally Blo,” which somehow amuses me for days after.

“Look,” I say, showing my wife the ticket stub.

“Legally Blo?” she says.

“Isn’t that funny?”

“No,” she says.

“Oh, OK,” I say.

We need a vacation because when my wife joins me in the pool, the water suddenly tastes better. Wife soup. My favorite summer dish.

We need a vacation because the dogs are eating our teeth.

“You’re amazing,” I tell my wife one night.

“In what sense?” she asks.

“In every sense.”

“We need a vacation,” she says.

See you in a couple of weeks.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.