The Disproportionate Ordeal of a Routine Dental Visit

There are many things one can prepare for in life. A difficult conversation. An unexpected expense. A wardrobe malfunction that requires quick improvisation. But no amount of preparation can fully steel one against the silent dread of the phrase: “We’ll just take a quick look.”

A dental appointment is, in theory, a simple transaction. One arrives. One reclines. One allows a stranger to wield miniature instruments of precision in the most vulnerable crevice of one’s body while making small talk about weekend plans. This, I have always felt, is the most perverse part of the experience. How was your summer? they ask, as if I am in a position to articulate anything beyond a strained gurgle.

As a gazelle, I have unique considerations. My elongated face does not naturally conform to human dental chairs, which I suspect were designed with much rounder skulls in mind. The horn situation presents additional complications—tilting my head backward at the wrong angle is a logistical nightmare for all involved. And then, of course, there are my teeth. An herbivore’s teeth are made for grinding, for the gentle act of processing foliage. And yet, here I am, subjected to the same pointed scrutiny as though I had been chewing bricks in my spare time.

At the conclusion of the appointment, I am given my prognosis: “Looks great. Just keep flossing.” Flossing. A practice designed with human teeth in mind, now recommended to one whose dental structure was intended for the open plains. I nod, as if I will comply. The appointment is over. I have survived. And I will not think of this place again—until, inevitably, I must return.