Okay so I couldn't wait to tell you this one.
By the time I was 4, I had been to see Dr. Ferguson a bazillion times. He was a nice man, he was a handsome man (I think my Mom had a crush on him), he was a stern, straight laced, god fearing man and I always thought he had a hard on for giving shots. Oops, shame on my name. Anyway, no matter what was wrong with me....there it came....the dreaded syringe filled with (what I know now to have been poison to my system) antibiotics, flu shots, vitamin shots, what the hell ever shots. You must keep in mind, I grew up in the rootin tootin wild west 1950's. Where polio, rubella, hard measles, small pox, chicken pox and mumps took the lives of children every year. Not to mention strep, pneumonia and goodness knows what else.
I can remember standing in a line with hundreds of other kids and getting sugar cubes with polio concoction on it, flu shots taken directly from eggs and then injected into your arm, small pox vaccinations where they poked you a thousand times after they had dropped the liquid on your arm. Ouch. Some folks may call the 1950's the good old days but huh?
So one lovely autumn day, when I had a sore throat, my Mother took me to Doc's office. His nurse Pearl (he also had one named Opal) took us into the room and told us Doc would be right with us. I asked her if I was going to have to get a shot. She said yes, probably. Well, I had just had it with this "abuse" and while my Mom and Pearl were chatting, I took the keys to the '53 Chevy sedan we had come in and made for the front door. Ran to the car and locked myself and the keys in. "Ha", says I. My Mom could take the shot for me.
Well, it wasn't too long until a very angry mob of adults showed up at the car and demanded that I open the door. Nope says I, you can't make me. I have no idea how I thought I would get away with it. After some convincing by Doc that I should just come out before I really got anyone any angrier (yeah, like I didn't know when my Mother got me alone that I was chopped liver). I opened the door, was carried back to the office, given a shot and sent home. Yep, my Mom used the fly swatter on me and sent me to bed.
I know that this next part was not a plot, honest, but in a few weeks I had to have surgery to take out the offending tonsils. I really thought that was my punishment for having locked myself in the car and didn't do it again. But I also never trusted the doctor again either. When I woke from surgery, I whispered to the nurse...looks like as many people standing around in here I could get some ice cream.....wow, at least that's how the story goes. I often wonder who that kid was. The one with the attitude and confidence to stand up to tyranny cuz I don't ever remember feeling that bravado or swagger. Maybe my Mom just told the stories that way.
Now you pan to the present and I have two of those beasties living in my house. Full of themselves, confident and sometimes a bit rotten. Yeah. Rock on beasties. I'll just keep the keys out of reach.