IT is over a month since Harry first appeared at the surgery.

I noticed there was a large space around him when I went to call him in from the waiting room; always a warning sign.

Was he aggressive? Did he smell? He plodded into the consulting room with the sort of calm, resilient demeanour that so many retired racing greyhounds possess.

His thick hocks and numerous scars are testament to a past life that clearly had its ups and downs but we will never know what really happened to him in his racing career.

Despite this, he still stands to be examined with an air of dignity that is to be admired and takes whatever comes his way with silent fortitude. He is about 30kg of solid bone and muscle and, at first, I could find little reason for his new owner’s complaint that he wasn’t eating as well as usual.

It is not that uncommon. Many rehomed dogs arrive in their rescue home a little undernourished. Not surprisingly, since they can be pitiful sights, they are well looked after and, if anything, slightly overfed.

Pretty soon, the old body clock kicks in, says, “I am too heavy“, and the dog starts to refuse food. Just when I was beginning to think that this was Harry’s problem, I lifted his lips and revealed a set of gnashers that were well past their sell by date.

Hardly a single tooth was unaffected. Not only that, the smell that emanated from his mouth would have knocked out an elephant. If halitosis was a football team, he had Barcelona.

Drastic action was needed to remedy the problem. I turned to the owner to explain that dogs have 42 teeth, 10 more than humans but I stopped myself. I was also going to discuss that, over time, soft plaque, a mixture of food and bacteria, adheres to the teeth and eventually becomes mineralised to form tartar. As this builds up, inflammation of the gums or gingivitis occurs and the gum begins to recede, exposing the roots of the teeth. Furthermore, bacteria invade holes or caries in the teeth, infecting the roots and hastening tooth loss. But again I hesitated. I faltered. I squirmed.

In front of me, Harry’s owner stood, half in worry, half in expectation. I smiled in an embarrassed kind of way and he smiled too. This was a mistake.

His grin revealed the black, gaping hole that was his mouth. The only structure visible was a single, lonely, discoloured incisor that sat precariously in his upper jaw. It was so long and the root so exposed that I was incredulous that it still remained. What use it was I shall never know but the very sight of it had stifled my normally enthusiastic explanation of all things dental.

As my mouth dried, I gulped and carried on. No apparent offence was caused.

Harry subsequently had 28 rotten teeth removed. His breath is sweeter. He eats better than he has for ages.

And I am so glad I am a vet and not a dentist.