About twenty five years ago I had to have minor surgery on my foot, and no, it was not to remove it from my mouth. But I almost put it there afterwards.
While waiting in an examination room in my podiatrist's office for a follow up visit after the surgery I began looking over the several paintings in the room and man, they were awful. I'm no kind of artist, but those paintings were terrible; worse than a six year old doing a paint by number terrible. Worse than your first grader's stuff that you proudly put on the fridge. I sat studying the artwork, all the while thinking of the insults I'd make about them to whomever I saw next. Yet the little bird told me to be careful what I said.
Soon enough a nurse entered. "Those are some paintings," I began. It was intended a prelude to mockery. Yet it also gave me a moment to gauge things.
"Aren't they?" the nurse replied, beaming. "Doctor Lewis's father made every one of them!"
"Ah," I answered back. "That's really cool." And I left it at that. But I've thanked that little bird every time since that I've thought of the occasion.
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