tries to coax it back to the reservation. lf it refuses to do so,
he bids it an affectionate adieu, makes a dotted mark on you to
show where he left off, collects his bill and regretfully turns
you over to a stomach specialist or a throat specialist, depending
on the direction in which the trouble was headed when last seen.

Or, perhaps the specialist to whom you take your custom is an
advocate of an immediate operation for such cases as yours and
all others. I may be unduly sensitive on account of having recently
emerged from the surgeon's hands, but it strikes me now that there
are an awful lot of doctors who take one brief glance at a person
who is complaining, and say to themselves that here is something
that ought to be looked into right away--and immediately open a
bag and start picking out the proper utensils. You go into a
doctor's office and tell him you do not feel the best in the world--
and he gives you a look and excuses himself, and steps into the
next room and begins greasing a saw.

Mind you, in these casual observations as compiled by me while
bedfast and here given utterance, I am not seeking to disparage
possibly the noblest of professions. Lately I have owed much to
it. I am strictly on the doctor's side. He is with us when we
come into the world and with us when we go out of it, oftentimes
lending a helping hand on both occasions. Anyway, our sympathies
should especially go out to the medical profession at this particular
time when the anti-vivisectionists are railing so loudly against
the doctors. The anti-vivisection crusade has enlisted widely
different classes in the community, including many lovers of our
dumb-animal pets--and aren't some of them the dumbest things you
ever saw!--especially chow dogs and love birds.