We all have a bucket list I suppose, at least, to one degree or another. That list of self-important activities we wish to accomplish while we still have the wherewithal and spirit of an exuberant pre-teen, before our senses somehow escape us, or our lungs go on strike permanently.

And while this is certainly true in my case, I have also had a long and cumbersome anti, or tipped over, bucket list of things I never hoped would happen to me, or draw my focus long enough to find myself meticulously involved in their doing. Gardening, for example, was always something I would alert my friends to watch out for. If they should ever catch me on bended knees, with weathered green gloves on my hands, mulching the earth, they had strict orders to eliminate without prejudice.

As we enter new phases of our lives, new entries crop up on both sides of the equation. Since the arrival of little Ruby last fall, our ridiculously charming Goldendoodle puppy, I now find myself invested in numerous activities I never before saw possible: wading out in Harrison Lake’s sub-freezing temperatures last week to encourage her to make that first grand leap into the water immediately springs to mind (mission accomplished however, even if I’m still rubbing my legs, searching for feeling).

Though, something that was never on my to-do list, mainly because the notion was leagues off my radar, was brought up not long ago by the over-protective parent of a small Maltese cross that we occasionally bump into on our jaunts around the neighborhood. As the two of us stood awkwardly on the sidewalk with our dogs, politely undermining each other’s training and feeding techniques, he not so much inquired as made the assumptive statement about the frequency of brushing my dog’s teeth.

As the words left his lips I found myself in that contemplative few seconds where the phrase is broken down into words within your mind, as you painfully try to discern firstly, what this potential Looney-bird is talking about, and second, whether they are outright joking. It quickly became apparent however, that this was no joke, but rather something the gentlemen took all too seriously. How frequently did I brush Ruby’s dog teeth? Fortunately he was the sort of chap who is more interested in the crackling sound of his own voice, than in anything I might have to offer in conversation, thus saving me from having to point out any idiocy I felt deep, deep inside. I simply nodded my approval as he talked about their thrice-daily ritual of oral hygiene he concludes with his dog routinely, without fail.

You meet all manner of people when you have a dog, particularly a puppy, and I filed this meeting away into the forget-it category until a trip to our vet a few weeks later, when during an examination for nothing remotely concerning Ruby’s mouth, our vet had the class to point out Ruby had an unusual amount of tarter on her teeth. This can happen with certain dogs he insisted, as if this was simply an unlucky roll of the dice for us, that would translate into special dog food (conveniently sold from his very office), as well as routine visits to have a cleaning.

I found it hard to imagine little Ruby, reclined in that awkward, ass-over-teakettle position, cloth nappy strapped around her neck, suction tube draining excess liquid from her mouth. To be honest, I just didn’t see her sitting still for all that, not when there are bums to be sniffed outside. And while we could always use extra toothbrushes around the house, an alternative needed to be found; certainly if we were to keep any lingering feelings of self-respect we felt we had earned in our adult lives.

It was at our favorite dog store, Simply Natural, where the solution was presented by their fabulously informed staff: the knucklebone. That discarded hunk of carcass frivolously tossed aside by us humans when divvying up the animal du jour. Letting Ruby have a go for forty-five minutes twice a week not only took away the excess plaque build-up, it freshened up her breath and saved me the humiliation of having to attend some sort of Doggie Anonymous meeting whereby I must stand and deliver the unfortunate passage: “Hi my name is Regan, and I brush my dog’s teeth.”

My point: there is always an alternative, no matter the condition, circumstance, or predicament. And if it takes potential self-humiliation, or the expansion of either end of the bucket list to find it, then so be it. Ruby is a handful as it is, without the pressure of figuring out which brand of toothpaste she likes.