Show Me Your Paw

The man had an ordinary, American-sounding name. Let's call him Al Morse. Al lives in New Hampshire. It was midwinter when Al told me he was taking his wife dog sledding.

"Ever done the Iditarod?" I asked.
"Been to Alaska lots of times," he said. Then he added, "Thing is, my dogs only understand Ukrainian or Russian. You tell 'em 'Sit!' and they don't know what you're talking about. But say, 'Sydity!' and they sit right down.

"I learned how to talk to these dogs from my folks," said Al. "My people are from Dnepropetrovsk." He then launched into a series of (to me) flawlessly-accented Ukrainian sled-dog commands -- my favorite (though not in Ukrainian) being, "Show me your paw."

I doubt I'll ever ask a Slavic sled-dog to show me its paw, but knowing that Al does may give me insight if my team ever looks perplexed. Picking up tips like this helps me reflect on what a wonderful profession medicine can be. You meet people you'd never otherwise run into and find out about things they do that you never imagined existed, and couldn't make up.

Take Mr. Blanchard, a middle-aged gent not currently employed. He lives in Revere, Mass., just north of Boston. Mr. Blanchard, who has the kind of rolling baritone favored by earlier generations of radio announcers, has a deep love of two Old Testament books: Ecclesiastes and Job. That this pair is among the most depressing ever written does not dampen his enthusiasm for them. Mr. Blanchard said that he has committed to memory every available English translation of each. He will cite quotations at the drop of a hat, or even if a hat fails to drop.

Every morning at dawn Mr. Blanchard strides along Revere Beach and cries out the verses of Ecclesiastes and Job to the waves. This, he told me, does great things for his lungs and gets his day started out right, though what you would feel like doing with your day after digesting the wisdom of Job and Ecclesiastes is not clear. Perhaps having a doughnut?

"It's inspiring," said Mr. Blanchard, with gusto. "To look out over the waves and say, as Job did, 'All the rivers flow into the sea, yet the sea is not full.'"
That, I gently observed, was from Ecclesiastes. If you're going to limit your canon to two books, you might as well keep them straight.

I could not invent Mr. Blanchard. Yet I have met him.

And then, just the other day, Kevin came in with his mother. A wrestler, Kevin contracted a loathsome scalp infection that was now oozing south-by-southeast onto his forehead. Knowing how mothers often feel about their sons engaging in contact sports, I gibed, "How about taking up chess, Kevin?"

"I do chess boxing," he said, not missing a beat.
"What?"
"Chess boxing," he repeated. "It's really popular. First you make some chess moves, then you box, and you go back and forth. You win either by a checkmate or a knockout."
"What on Earth are you talking about?" I responded. I figured this kid for the slickest leg-puller I ever met, but he seemed quite sincere.

Later, I Googled "chess boxing," and wouldn't you know that it was right there on Wikipedia? (Where else?)

The article read: "Chess boxing is a hybrid sport which combines boxing with chess in alternating rounds. The sport began when Dutch artist Iepe Rubingh, inspired by fictional depictions by French comic book artist and filmmaker Enki Bilal, organized actual bouts. Chess boxing is now growing in popularity. Participants must be both skilled boxers and chess players, as a match may be won either way."

Are you going to tell me you didn't know about chess boxing? What do you do--spend all your time reading medical journals? You should get out more, or learn from your patients who do.

Ecclesiastes wrote that there is nothing new under the sun. I guess Ecclesiastes didn't know about chess boxing.


Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass. To respond to this column, e-mail Dr. Rockoff at our editorial offices at [email protected].

The man had an ordinary, American-sounding name. Let's call him Al Morse. Al lives in New Hampshire. It was midwinter when Al told me he was taking his wife dog sledding.

"Ever done the Iditarod?" I asked.
"Been to Alaska lots of times," he said. Then he added, "Thing is, my dogs only understand Ukrainian or Russian. You tell 'em 'Sit!' and they don't know what you're talking about. But say, 'Sydity!' and they sit right down.

"I learned how to talk to these dogs from my folks," said Al. "My people are from Dnepropetrovsk." He then launched into a series of (to me) flawlessly-accented Ukrainian sled-dog commands -- my favorite (though not in Ukrainian) being, "Show me your paw."

I doubt I'll ever ask a Slavic sled-dog to show me its paw, but knowing that Al does may give me insight if my team ever looks perplexed. Picking up tips like this helps me reflect on what a wonderful profession medicine can be. You meet people you'd never otherwise run into and find out about things they do that you never imagined existed, and couldn't make up.

Take Mr. Blanchard, a middle-aged gent not currently employed. He lives in Revere, Mass., just north of Boston. Mr. Blanchard, who has the kind of rolling baritone favored by earlier generations of radio announcers, has a deep love of two Old Testament books: Ecclesiastes and Job. That this pair is among the most depressing ever written does not dampen his enthusiasm for them. Mr. Blanchard said that he has committed to memory every available English translation of each. He will cite quotations at the drop of a hat, or even if a hat fails to drop.

Every morning at dawn Mr. Blanchard strides along Revere Beach and cries out the verses of Ecclesiastes and Job to the waves. This, he told me, does great things for his lungs and gets his day started out right, though what you would feel like doing with your day after digesting the wisdom of Job and Ecclesiastes is not clear. Perhaps having a doughnut?

"It's inspiring," said Mr. Blanchard, with gusto. "To look out over the waves and say, as Job did, 'All the rivers flow into the sea, yet the sea is not full.'"
That, I gently observed, was from Ecclesiastes. If you're going to limit your canon to two books, you might as well keep them straight.

I could not invent Mr. Blanchard. Yet I have met him.

And then, just the other day, Kevin came in with his mother. A wrestler, Kevin contracted a loathsome scalp infection that was now oozing south-by-southeast onto his forehead. Knowing how mothers often feel about their sons engaging in contact sports, I gibed, "How about taking up chess, Kevin?"

"I do chess boxing," he said, not missing a beat.
"What?"
"Chess boxing," he repeated. "It's really popular. First you make some chess moves, then you box, and you go back and forth. You win either by a checkmate or a knockout."
"What on Earth are you talking about?" I responded. I figured this kid for the slickest leg-puller I ever met, but he seemed quite sincere.

Later, I Googled "chess boxing," and wouldn't you know that it was right there on Wikipedia? (Where else?)

The article read: "Chess boxing is a hybrid sport which combines boxing with chess in alternating rounds. The sport began when Dutch artist Iepe Rubingh, inspired by fictional depictions by French comic book artist and filmmaker Enki Bilal, organized actual bouts. Chess boxing is now growing in popularity. Participants must be both skilled boxers and chess players, as a match may be won either way."

Are you going to tell me you didn't know about chess boxing? What do you do--spend all your time reading medical journals? You should get out more, or learn from your patients who do.

Ecclesiastes wrote that there is nothing new under the sun. I guess Ecclesiastes didn't know about chess boxing.


Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass. To respond to this column, e-mail Dr. Rockoff at our editorial offices at [email protected].

The man had an ordinary, American-sounding name. Let's call him Al Morse. Al lives in New Hampshire. It was midwinter when Al told me he was taking his wife dog sledding.

"Ever done the Iditarod?" I asked.
"Been to Alaska lots of times," he said. Then he added, "Thing is, my dogs only understand Ukrainian or Russian. You tell 'em 'Sit!' and they don't know what you're talking about. But say, 'Sydity!' and they sit right down.

"I learned how to talk to these dogs from my folks," said Al. "My people are from Dnepropetrovsk." He then launched into a series of (to me) flawlessly-accented Ukrainian sled-dog commands -- my favorite (though not in Ukrainian) being, "Show me your paw."

I doubt I'll ever ask a Slavic sled-dog to show me its paw, but knowing that Al does may give me insight if my team ever looks perplexed. Picking up tips like this helps me reflect on what a wonderful profession medicine can be. You meet people you'd never otherwise run into and find out about things they do that you never imagined existed, and couldn't make up.

Take Mr. Blanchard, a middle-aged gent not currently employed. He lives in Revere, Mass., just north of Boston. Mr. Blanchard, who has the kind of rolling baritone favored by earlier generations of radio announcers, has a deep love of two Old Testament books: Ecclesiastes and Job. That this pair is among the most depressing ever written does not dampen his enthusiasm for them. Mr. Blanchard said that he has committed to memory every available English translation of each. He will cite quotations at the drop of a hat, or even if a hat fails to drop.

Every morning at dawn Mr. Blanchard strides along Revere Beach and cries out the verses of Ecclesiastes and Job to the waves. This, he told me, does great things for his lungs and gets his day started out right, though what you would feel like doing with your day after digesting the wisdom of Job and Ecclesiastes is not clear. Perhaps having a doughnut?

"It's inspiring," said Mr. Blanchard, with gusto. "To look out over the waves and say, as Job did, 'All the rivers flow into the sea, yet the sea is not full.'"
That, I gently observed, was from Ecclesiastes. If you're going to limit your canon to two books, you might as well keep them straight.

I could not invent Mr. Blanchard. Yet I have met him.

And then, just the other day, Kevin came in with his mother. A wrestler, Kevin contracted a loathsome scalp infection that was now oozing south-by-southeast onto his forehead. Knowing how mothers often feel about their sons engaging in contact sports, I gibed, "How about taking up chess, Kevin?"

"I do chess boxing," he said, not missing a beat.
"What?"
"Chess boxing," he repeated. "It's really popular. First you make some chess moves, then you box, and you go back and forth. You win either by a checkmate or a knockout."
"What on Earth are you talking about?" I responded. I figured this kid for the slickest leg-puller I ever met, but he seemed quite sincere.

Later, I Googled "chess boxing," and wouldn't you know that it was right there on Wikipedia? (Where else?)

The article read: "Chess boxing is a hybrid sport which combines boxing with chess in alternating rounds. The sport began when Dutch artist Iepe Rubingh, inspired by fictional depictions by French comic book artist and filmmaker Enki Bilal, organized actual bouts. Chess boxing is now growing in popularity. Participants must be both skilled boxers and chess players, as a match may be won either way."

Are you going to tell me you didn't know about chess boxing? What do you do--spend all your time reading medical journals? You should get out more, or learn from your patients who do.

Ecclesiastes wrote that there is nothing new under the sun. I guess Ecclesiastes didn't know about chess boxing.


Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass. To respond to this column, e-mail Dr. Rockoff at our editorial offices at [email protected].