News item: scientists find proof that dentists were drilling teeth as far back as 9,000 years ago.



The scene is Doc Grok’s dental clinic, a cave with a nice arrangement of boulders and a handy stream for spitting. Dental implements are stacked in one corner, presided over by Doc Grok’s assistant, Ulla. The patient, Tharg, is sitting on a boulder, leaning back on a smaller stone. Around his neck is a piece of hide from a sabre-toothed tiger. The time is the Stone Age.

Tharg speaks: “Bad grinder tooth back here, Doc Grok. Hurts even a caveman like me.”

Doc Grok peers into Tharg’s mouth, propping it open with a forked stick.

“Phew,” he says. “You ever hear of tooth-brushing, Tharg? Run a bunch of twigs over your grinders. What you have for breakfast? Dead sloth?”

“Naturally dead,” says Tharg. “Old age maybe and on the turn. Tasty, even toothsome. But tooth was hurting before I ate the sloth.”

“I see your problem,” says Doc Grok. “Look here, Ulla.” He motions her over and wedges another forked stick in Tharg’s mouth. “He has a tooth devil.”

“Ugga, ugga,” Tharg grunts.

Doc Grok rightly figures it’s a question: “You have a devil in your tooth, Tharg. Small demon is causing pain. I drill him out. OK?”

Tharg nods, poking one of the forked sticks up his nose at the same time.

Ulla hands Doc Grok the small bow drill with pointed flint on the end. He jams it in Tharg’s mouth and starts to drill.

“Yowa, yowa,” yells Tharg, spitting out the bow drill and the forked sticks. “Hurts. I thought that pictograph on your cave wall advertised painless dentistry.”

“Yes, it does,” says Doc Grok. “I do painless dentistry. But it will cost you another rabbit skin.”

Tharg nods.

“First, we’ll try a local anesthetic,” says Doc Grok. “You’ll feel no pain around your demon tooth. OK?”

Tharg nods.

Ulla picks up a stout stick with a small rock lashed to one end and cracks him a good one on the jaw.

“Yopa, yopa,” yells Tharg, once again filling the cave with pieces of forked sticks. “No good.”

“Looks like we need the general anesthetic. Guaranteed you feel no pain. First, let me get these new forked sticks back in your mouth, Tharg.”

Doc Grok adjusts the sticks, turns to Ulla and says: “Roll out the mother of all anesthetics.”

Ulla grabs a length of vine dangling from the cave roof, gives it a mighty tug and a 50-pound boulder drops on Tharg’s head.

“Woofa, woofa,” Tharg says and slips into what we all hope is only a temporary loss of consciousness.

Time passes. Doc Grok and Ulla work the bow drill. “New flint head,” says Doc Grok. Ulla hands him one, which he attaches to the drill. Smoke rises from Tharg’s mouth.

“Almost there,” says Doc Grok. “Tooth demon a-coming out. Hand me my dental pick.”

“Which one?” Ulla asks.

“Looks like a piece of sharp rock,” says Doc Grok. “Obsidian. New word I learned today.”

Ulla hands him an implement that not only looks like a sharp rock but is a sharp rock. Doc Grok jams it into Tharg’s mouth, twists his wrist, then steps back with a smile.

“All done, Ulla,” he says. “Another tooth demon is gone.”

Tharg slumbers on. He seems to be still alive. They remove the forked sticks from his mouth.

“Oh, oh,” says Doc Grok. “Nasty-looking pointer tooth up front there. Maybe I fix him up with a crown.”

“What’s a crown?” asks Ulla.

“Not invented yet,” says Doc Grok. “I must be a little ahead of my time.”

The curtain lowers on the Stone Age. IE