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September 21, 2001

Mel went in for a thorough physical recently—his first in a coon's age.

"At doctor checked me over from stem to stern," he announced upon his return.

"That must have taken awhile," I yawned. "I mean, that's a lot of territory to cover in one afternoon."

Mel dismissed my insult and said, "Doctor Salinas said I wuz in purdy good shape for a guy my age an' my size, which surprised him a bit."

"How come?"

"Well, it'd been so long since I'd been in for a checkup, they made me fill out a new information sheet. They asked me to name all the childhood diseases I'd had, any medical problems I knew of, past injuries, surgeries, and to list any scars. So I wrote down measles, mumps, chicken pox, broke collar bone, heel spur, cataract surgery, acid reflux, two busted eardrums, an ingrown toenail, bursitis, arthritis...then I listed the scar I got on top of my head whur I got whacked with a furniture clamp an' split it open; the burn on my forearm; the 10 or 12 scars up an' down my shins I got playin' football and whur the cows kicked me; and the one on the palm of my hand whur I tripped an' fell as a kid an' cut my hand on a coffee can lid. Doc took one look at it and said, "Good grief, Mel, did they brang you in here on a stretcher?"

"No wonder. Sounds like you got carried away. Bet you even had to ask for more paper."

"Well, I don't know why they ask all those questions if they don't want you to answer 'em. I didn't even mention the root canal, my sinus headaches, or my bad back."

"Looks to me like it might have been a whole lot easier for you to list what WASN'T wrong instead of what was," I observed. "By your own admission, you're not even worth parting out! Say, I wonder if that Lemon Law applies to husbands?"

Mel glared at me. "I ain't a total loss. You should be glad to know that my blood pressure's perfect an' my ticker seems to be in good shape. They drew more blood than Dracula an' said except for my cholesterol and triglycerides bein' a li'l high, ever'thang checked out okay. They wanna do a upper GI an' a li'l sonygram on my gallbladder next week, to make sure I don't have any gallstones."

"....or bile boulders?" I chirped.

"Lana Gayle, you ain't got a' ounce o' compassion. Don't matter whut's wrong with me, I jist git yore pat response—'I got worse scratches on my eyeball'. That's why I don't bother to tell you when I'm sick. Some mornin's I'm so stiff I can hardly git out o' bed. Why I ain't told you the half o' whut's wrong with me..."

"You mean there's more?"

"Go ahead an' have yore fun, you hard-hearted woman. Then it'll be my turn. It's 'bout time you went in for a oil change yoreself. Jist how long's it been since you had a head-to-toe physical...probably when Dr. Wright spanked yore bottom at birth."

"I steer away from doctors and only go as a last resort," I said.

"That ain't very smart," Mel chided.

"Well, it's like an old fellow who was popping pills right and left once told me: 'Hon, whatever you do, stay away from them doctors or they'll find sump'n wrong with you shore 'nuff!"