Mr. G. has been with me longer than my kids. He was one of my first surgical patients in private practice. That's when I was fresh out of residency, and he has faithfully accompanied me as I have changed office locations and hair color.
During the history and physical at his initial visit, he told me that he had retired from a career as some kind of spook for "a government agency". Naturally, I thought he was a nut job and called his primary doc, because surgery on crazy people is fraught with risk. His primary confirmed that it was actually true, indeed he had done some kind of cloak and dagger shit.
Mr. G. was then 72 and had the worst case of gout that I have ever seen. Soon after I repaired a couple of his partially ruined joints, he declared his love for me and proposed marriage. He thought that he had at least 6 or 7 good years left, a nice pension and excellent benefits; he also informed me (verbally, get your mind out of the gutter) the he did not need Viagra. Since I was married and pregnant at the time, I demurred.
All and all, he's a fine old gentleman, except for the gout and one eye that's a little wonky. He's just turned 80 and now he's pulling the "last wish" crap, as in "it may be your last chance to have dinner with me" etc, etc. That horny old goat will probably outlive Archie Bunker, and still be able to deliver a bitch slap when he's 102. Anyhow, after all the years I finally took him out for dinner. MY TREAT!
He told me he'd been officially retired because his trigger finger was gouty, but still I'm nervous about making any disparaging comments about Archie Bunker, because of the remote possibility the Mr. G would want to be gallant and come out of retirement; what with that wonky eye and all he'd probably shoot the dog.
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