Coleman’s breath is the razor blade in the apple. This very sweet, and very shiny-coated creature will walk right up to a stranger, stand gracelessly on his lap, and offer a short kiss on the lips or nose. (something I taught her, actually. don’t ask.) Then the stranger will recoil, disgusted, and Coleman’s love will ultimately be either A) violently rejected or B) politely accepted through a pained grimace and tense muscles. It is difficult to describe the quality of Coleman’s breath but I will try. Imagine what would happen if a mouth could take a shit. Now imagine that same shit-taking mouth with some mackerel caught between its teeth. That’s getting close.

We have tried many different solutions, beginning with (as always) a stern talking-to and followed by tooth-cleaning kibble and, eventually, cat mints. Cat mints are only like human mints in color. They’re green but they smell more like peppered bluefish than peppermint. The mints, it should be known, are not terribly effective. However, they have become Coleman’s favorite snack and probably another contribution to her “obesity fund”.

Since the introduction of mints, Coleman’s diet has been a mixture of dry food, hard candy (as established in Exhibit 002), Pounce, and mints. Ironically, we have very similar diets. But I brush my teeth. And, while I am clearly a sad little cat-man, I am not quite so sad that I’m going to invest in a cat toothbrush. Not yet, at least.

Coleman’s poor oral hygiene is still, somehow, endearing. I only wish I could say the same about Ble and her little problem