So my good friend Dave "The Doc" calls late one evening, says he's uncorking a bottle of Lagavulin and could I come over. I scared him when I pressed my face against the glass of his kitchen window while he was still holding the phone, waiting for an answer.
As we sit in the den at the table overlooking the lake, Dave pours a splash of the Islay Gold into a snifter. He swirls it and tastes it.
"Outstanding," he says.
"Where's mine?" I ask.
"You don't get any," he says. "Your cholesterol's too high. That's what I wanted to talk to you about." When it comes to cholesterol, Dave is one gigantic pain at the end of the alimentary canal.
Years ago Dave suffered from high cholesterol and beat it to death with a self-imposed diet that contravenes the Geneva Convention on how prisoners of war must be fed.
In these parts, Dave is known as the "Cholesterol Killer." When Dave enters a room even the little globs of cholesterol in other people's bloodstreams scream and squirm, like rats in the movie Ben. Then they run for cover in a small cave behind the pancreas.
Dave proceeded to tell me that my recent blood test showed my HDL's or good cholesterol to be outstanding, one of the best he's ever seen. But my LDL's, in a moderate risk position two years ago, are now over the top.
In its simplest form, this cholesterol thing is like life: your HD's or Happy Dogooders swim through your bloodstream minding their own business but under constant attack from your LD's or Lowlife Dwebes. When there's more bad guys than good guys, evil triumphs and you die. When there's more good guys than bad guys, the HD's win a stay of execution and you die later on.
"But Dave," I protested, "I play tennis and I walk Jake 10 or 12 hours each week."
"That's great," said Dave. "Your dog is going to outlive you. Now here's what we're going to do ..."
So Dave outlined what I can and cannot eat and drink for the next couple of months or the rest of my life, whichever comes first. And I must say it's incredibly easy to distinguish between what's good and bad for me. The rule is, if it has flavour or is in any way appealing - I can't have it. Everything else including bottled water and lettuce baked in sesame oil is fine.
Oh and I can have any "meat on the hoof" because as Dave says, I probably can't catch it and kill it anyway. I can have one ballpark hotdog a year provided I'm strapped to the gurney in the ambulance at the rear exit of the stadium.
"What kind of milk do you drink?" asked Dave.
"I'm down to 2 per cent," I said.
Dave laughed for the first time since I walked in.
"No, no, no ... skim milk from now on," he said.
That's the bluish, slightly white water that looks and tastes like bluish, slightly white water but is clearly stamped 'MILK' on the carton. You need two cups of skim milk to make one cup of coffee turn brown.
"Well gee Dave," I said, "why don't I just take some blackboard chalk, dissolve it in water and drink that?"
I have no luck. The very day before Dave read me the riot act I went to see a movie in Buffalo with my brother-in-law Danny and brought back 10 lbs. of Sahlen hotdogs, the best hotdogs in America.
I offered to sell my half back to Danny, but he found out about my condition and he now says he's willing to take them off my hands on "humanitarian grounds." No cash. Negotiations on-going.
Okay Dave, we'll do it your way. And I'm starting by destroying my personal single-malt Scotch collection ... one snifter at a time.
P.S. One BBQ for sale. Few accessories but lots of memories. Cheap.
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William Thomas is the author of nine books of humour including Margaret and Me, the story about his wee Irish mother. See williamthomas.ca
