Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Empath and the Bone-Cracker

     Let me tell you a story of my experience with my bone-cracker -- I mean -- chiropractor.  It shows how empaths never seem to escape.

     I was lying on my stomach, face smashed between the two cushions on the adjusting table, and just happened to ask how my chiropractor's arm was doing.  My chiropractor had fallen a week or so before, and this was the hand he used in doing the adjustments.  Our conversation went something like this:

     "So, how's the arm?"  Crack.  Ooff.

     "Oh, better.  I still favoring it, but it doesn't hurt so much."

     "That's good."  Crack.  Moan.  A little voice in my left ear mentions dogs.  "And how are all your puppies?"  My chiropractor has a whole platoon of dogs, from very aged to a few months old.

     "Funny you should ask.  Two of them went at each other the other day and I got the worst of it."  He puts his heavily bandaged thumb under the hole in the face rest for me to see.  "They got off without a scrape."

     "Well, I hope it doesn't slow you down too much."  Crackity-crack.  Owwwww.

     "Nope, not a whit."

     No escape for me.  Too bad.

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