If He Loses His Fang, Then What Do I Call Him?

Goodness gracious. What a nutty few days its been. I'm in "fat and ugly" mode, where I spiral downward uncontrolled from something as little as spilled milk. The scenario can be as simple as follows:

Stranger: Hello. Nice day out, yes?
Me: Get OFF my FUCKING back!! Dammit!!!

or

Krista: Hey, how's that dissertation coming along?
Me: You really hate me, don't you?

or

Greg: I really need to get back into the gym.
Me: I'm fat and ugly and nobody likes me!! Argh!!!! Gah!!!!

Although not spilled milk, I did have a meltdown last week over spilled Crystal Lite. With a wave of resentful diet drink, the tipped glass sent "red" between the counter and stove, then under the stove, under the fridge and out the other side. A full eight ounces of sticky sugar-free hell co-mingling with decades of dust, a hardened noodle or two, wayward Tollhouse morsel, a petrified blueberry and some hair--now that's what I call a mess. I lost it. We're talking "abort, abort" style with the flashing lights and "a-oooo-ga" horn wailing at a hundred decibels over my sobs. It's not too late to save yourselves!!

Now with Fang's sickness stretching into three weeks, four vet trips and nearing the five hundred dollar mark, I'm a mess. This new vet thinks he has a respiratory infection, a bad tooth (ie. his primary identifier and namesake, the fang) some bacterial "thing" and insisted on some skin scrapes, lab work and two eye-droppers of white goo twice daily. I just want to snuggle with a mange-free cat and now I learn his fucking tooth is going to rot out of his mouth. What do I call him then? Gum? Baby Jesus in the manger. Send help.