The last thing we needed to do was fasten a slender tow-rope to the front of each sled. The instruction sheets didn’t offer any helpful hints as to what type of knot to tie. The company probably figured if you couldn’t come up with an effective knot, either you still drank from a sippy cup or you were just too damn stupid to own one of their sleds. Unfortunately, Gord and I both happen to be severely knot-challenged. We can intubate, throw in chest tubes and do spinal taps, but knots? Fuggedaboutit. What do we look like, sailors?

I was seriously considering giving up when an ancient memory of a knot I learned in Cubs decades prior lumbered out from some forgotten corner of my brain. I hastily replicated it before the memory receded.

I looked over to see how Gord was making out. I guess he never attended Cubs. He had tied a hideous Spanish Inquisition-looking knot on his sled. He was staring down at the tangled mess despondently. I couldn’t resist: “Avast matey! That's quite the Frankenknot you've created there!”

“You can say that again,” he said. “Oh well, no one said it had to be pretty. Let’s go tobogganing!”

It was an ideal afternoon for sledding – only minus 10 degrees Celsius, a cobalt sky and tons of fresh powder. Best of all, we had the entire hill to ourselves! No hot-dogging snowboarders attempting death-defying grinds and shreds. No snowmobilers paying homage to Saint Knievel. No tinnitus poster boys with portable boom boxes blasting out their favourite speed-metal arias for our listening pleasure (Hey buddy, did it ever occur to you that maybe the rest of North America doesn’t want to hear Napalm Death at 10 billion decibels?). Just two middle-aged guys and their kids. We had a great time.

Two hours later one of my daughters announced she needed to go to the bathroom. It was about time for supper anyway, so I told Gord we were going to head back home. He said he and the boys would go down the hill one last time and then meet us at our house. I gathered up as many of the sliding accessories as I could handle and walked home with the girls.

Gord and his boys arrived not long afterwards. We washed up and had supper. After supper the kids played games until they were exhausted. At bedtime Gord read them all a story. When the last child finally drifted off to sleep, Gord, Jan and I went to the kitchen and raided the fridge for beer and snacks. We stayed up chatting until midnight.

After breakfast the next morning we asked the kids what they wanted to do. Their answer was unanimous: sledding. Gord was the first to get his snowsuit on. He went outside to round up the gear but returned shortly afterwards with a quizzical look on his face.

“I found all the crazy carpets, but there’s only one GT outside,” he said. “Where’s the other one?”

“Probably in the garage,” I replied.

“No, I already checked in there. Do you remember where you left them when you got home last night?”

“Them? I only brought one back. Didn’t you bring the second one? It was tied to that bench near the top of the hill.”

“I must have walked right by it. I guess I figured you had taken both of them with you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’ll still be there. This is a friendly little town. It’s not like anyone’s going to rip off a GT.”

The boys finished pulling on their boots and ran outside. My daughters weren’t quite ready yet, so I told Gord to go on ahead. Five minutes later the girls and I departed.

When we emerged from the path that opens onto the clearing at the top of the hill I spotted Gord right away. It wasn’t that difficult – at 6-foot-5 he was easily the tallest of the dozen or so people milling about. Even from a distance I could tell something was amiss. I waved at him and shouted, “Did you find it?”

Instead of answering, he loped over to me. Uh-oh.

“There was no GT tied to the bench,” he whispered, “but that kid over there has one that looks exactly like ours.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the throng of people at the summit.

“Do you think it’s ours?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he got it for Christmas.”

I went over to take a look.

The boy was facing the opposite direction as I approached. There was a GT immediately behind him. I scrutinized it closely. In addition to being brand spanking new and sticker-free, it was sporting the same abominable knot. How suspicious can you get? I tapped our suspect on the shoulder.

He twisted around lazily and appraised me. He was a gangly 12-year-old boy with saffron hair, an explosion of freckles and pale blue eyes. A hint of a smirk played about his mouth.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Gray,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Josh.”

“Josh, this GT looks a lot like the one I accidentally left out here last night. Do you think it could be mine?”

He tilted his head back, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Nope, it’s mine.”

“When did you get it?”

“At Christmas.”

“Are you sure, Josh?”

“Yep.” He turned away from me in a blatantly dismissive manner. I could feel my hackles rising.

“Hang on, Josh; I’m not quite finished yet. Like I said, I’m pretty sure this is my GT. What’s your mother going to tell me if I call her and ask if you got a GT for Christmas?”

He wasn’t expecting that. His smug look faltered.

“Um… .”

“What’s your last name, Josh?”

“Uh… .” He started to fidget.

“What’s your phone number? I’ve got a cell phone right here in my pocket.” Of course I was bluffing, but he didn’t know that. The last remnants of his cockiness vanished.

“I don’t know!” he bleated nervously.

“Do you seriously expect me to believe you don’t know your own phone number? Come on, Josh; give me a break. What’s your phone number? Maybe I’ll talk to your father, instead.”

His eyes widened in horror.

“I promise you, I don’t know!” he wailed.

By this time several curious snowboarders had coalesced around us. A few of them started snickering.

“I promise you, I don’t know!” someone trilled in a squeaky Josh-like voice. The rest of them guffawed loudly.

“Josh, this is my GT, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” he stammered at his boots.

“What’s it called when you say things that aren’t true?” Gord asked him pointedly.

“L-lying.”

I relieved him of his plunder and gave it to Kristen. She hopped on the sled and went rocketing down the hill. Josh slunk away guiltily.

An hour later I was sitting on the bench taking a breather when Josh approached me.

Aha, he’s come back to apologize. There’s hope for him yet!

“Dr. Gray?” he ventured, eyes downcast.

“Yes?”

“Can I borrow your GT?”

Legerdemain (Sleight of Hand)

Most weekday mornings I do a couple of scheduled minor procedures in the emergency department. Patients used to have to sign a consent form prior to undergoing minor procedures, but a few years ago that antiquated ritual was laid to rest. If registering at the front desk, sitting in the waiting room for half an hour and then remaining perfectly still on an uncomfortable stretcher while being poked and prodded by sharp instruments isn’t proof enough that consent has been given, I don’t know what is.

Wart removals and cortisone injections are usually quick and predictable. Biopsies, on the other hand, are an entirely different kettle of fish. Minor biopsies involve removing only a tiny sliver of tissue, so sometimes the entire procedure lasts no longer than a few minutes. In those cases it probably takes more time to fill out the various forms that accompany the specimen to the laboratory than it does to remove the lesion itself. There are times, however, when much larger blocks of tissue need to be expunged. Sometimes this is because the lesion itself is bulky; other times it’s because the mole looks cancerous and we want to make sure all traces of it are eliminated. When it comes to lumps-and-bumps removal, there’s nothing more disconcerting than receiving a pathology report that states the lesion in question is an incompletely excised malignant melanoma.