It's in that little room with the sophisticated barber chair and the miniature oil-drilling rig that our relationship tends to deteriorate. I'm usually all right during the preliminary amenities while he's washing his hands and looking over my chart. But when his assistant comes in with that tray full of scrapers, picks, nippers and other unidentifiable tools of the trade, I begin to fear for my tonsils, my appendix and my very life. I have found that dentists, as a rule, are quite gentle. On the other hand, needles, extractors and high-speed drills have all the compassion of a rubber hose in a precinct interrogation chamber.
Drills are especially delightful.
Sometimes I wish they could deaden my ears as well as my jaw. The sound of a deep-pit coal miner going after No. 1 anthracite in my head is not my favorite lullaby, believe me. Trying to spit with sound-asleep lips is a droolful experience to say the least. With novacaine you don't whistle so good either. Our local doctor got to me a couple times when sucking a clove wasn't enough to ease the pain.