Hoppin' mad

Doogie Howser is a sadistic SOB.

I thought my therapist (physical that is) and I had come to an understanding, he'd fix my ankle without inflicting too much pain and I'd stop pissing on his tires after each session. It was becoming a symbiotic relationship, the swelling in my bad wheel had dropped and his white-walls remained yellow free.

Then Tuesday happened.

My first mistake was answering his first question of the session honestly.

"How does the ankle feel, meat?"

"Fine," I said. "Probably the best since I've entered your chamber of torturistic pleasure."

His grin chilled my balls. It was the same grin my dogs get when they see a feral cat meander into the compound's yard. It says, for lack of a better phrase, "Your ass is grass and I'm the lawn mower." And you better know it ain't Tori the lawn mower, but one of those lawn-mangling push mowers our grandparents rolled with back when the world was black and white.

"Great, meat, now get on the table," he says. I crawl up like a puppy waiting to get popped for poopin' behind the love seat. "Let's stretch this sucker out."

He bends my foot back far enough to form a U with my leg, then pushes it down so that toe to hip is one straight line.

I want to scream. I want to call Doogie a buck-tooth butt widget. I want my mommy.

But I don't, because doing so would give proof to something he already knows - I'm a sissy momma's boy who can handle about a teaspoon of pain before wailing in agony. If Doogie saw me bow to the pain, he'd continue the onslaught of ligament popping with a maniacal, mad doctor's laugh and I'd be lucky to walk out of his office with an unaided limp. So, I put the pain in a mental box and closed the lid, sealing all the hurt inside.

Once Doogie finished twisting and pushing and pulling and turning, it was trampoline time. Afraid Doogie would dress me up in the pink tutu he had me in the previous four weeks for trampoline work, I tell him no, thanks, the stretching worked wonders and I think I can go now. The mad doc face reappears and his laughter rings through my head like Chinese water torture. The mental box rips open and the pain that was sealed up rushes to the ankle and swells it like an over-inflated bicycle tire.

"You're a funny guy, meat. Now, get into costume and hop on the tramp."

I follow his instruction, hopping up and down until I'm reduced to tears and a puddle of sweat. By the end of the exercise I can't catch myself with the foot and am stumbling repeatedly into his collection of skeletans (past patients). Doogie is laughing so hard he falls off his throne and bangs the sweat drenched floor.

"OK, now we're doing Karaoke."

"Karaoke?" I say, pulling down the tutu to cover my bum a little better, afraid he'd make me sing about these exercises.

"Not that Karaoke. This is a dance."

The dance consists of two steps, front foot crosses the stationery leg, then crosses behind it with the next step. The catch? I have to do it double time. It didn't seem too hard, and thought this was finally, my chance to shine in this pit of hell. With his OK (if I didn't ask for permission he'd likely chase me with a Taser and shock the holy hell out of me until my pubes stood on end if I misstepped), I proceed slowly the first few passes before picking up the pace. I pick up the clip and move side to side, believing I have this sucker whipped now. But this is also a coordination test, and law of averages kick in two minutes down. I catch my back-crossing foot with my stationery leg, trip and roll like a bowling ball into an elderely couple working on their repaired knees with some treadmill marching. I unfold myself and survey the damage, Doogie's papers float to the floor like large snowflakes, and the two seniors, woosy from me slamming into them like they were a 7-10 split at the bowling alley, use the treadmill rails to steady their shaky bodies. I'm guessing they'll need knee replacements again.

Finally, I think afraid I would cause more damage to his torture chamber, Doogie has me perform what I term "the Field Sobriety Exercise."

"I just want you to feel ready to take on the real world again," Doogie said, in what I figured was a momentarty lapse of human kindness. And if there was something I needed work on, it's my field sobriety tests. This exercise has me hopping over a rope, from one side to the other, of course landing on the bad wheel, so each landing sends streaks of pain through my leg like little nails spiking every few inches. Fourteen minutes into the exercise Doogie shouts out a number and I'm supposed to yell back the corresponding letter. If I fail to answer, or say the wrong letter, he chucks a bean bag at my nut sack.

I guess his human kindness meter hits full rather quickly and takes an extremely long time to refill.

So, I didn't feel too guilty when I left his office and pissed on his tires.