My family, problem-solvers extraordinaire.

So, my uncle. Nice man. Hunts and fishes, but eats what he kills. Raises good dogs and raised two good kids. The sort of grandfather you'd want for your child, you dig? Goes to baseball games, can fry a mean catfish, has a good sense of humor. Sober, steady, church-going. I've never heard him raise his voice and have only heard of one time (and this was hearsay) when he used a naughty word, and that was "hell". Or "damn"; I don't really recall which.

My uncle. My Beloved Mother's baby brother, the one who loves Chefboy and is never in a bad mood? That one?

Sent a cosh.

A real, live, spring-handled, lead-ended, leather-wrapped cosh. As in, I'm not entirely certain this is legal within city limits cosh. Eight inches long, weighs about two pounds, makes a satisfying and painful thwap when you whack it into your palm, would easily fracture somebody's frontal skull. No lead pellets dropped into eelskins here; this is a serious weapon in an itty bitty package.

Apparently he read (sweet hopscotching Jesus, if he's reading this, I'd better clean up my fucking language) or heard about the patient taking a swing at me. And he got a little irritated on my behalf.

"She can put it" he told Beloved Mother, "in her pocket. Nurses have big pockets."

It has quite the loop strap on it, too. If I don't want to get too close to somebody and still land them in ICU overnight for observation, I could conceivably swing the thing at arm's length.

My methods of self-defense have been limited, these last twenty years, to ducking and running and imagining how, exactly, I would get to the fire extinguisher and loose it into some bad guy's face before Max ripped out his throat (always assuming Max would do that; it's not been put to the test, knock wood). I've never hit anybody with a cosh. I've never carried a cosh in my pocket. I've never even SEEN a cosh, for cryin' out loud; my naming it thus is informed by my taste for good and not-so-good detective fiction.

Nonetheless, I am now the proud posessor of an eight-inch-long (fourteen with handle), spring loaded, lead-tipped widget that's wrapped in braided black leather and looks like something either Bettie Page or your local pr0n store would carry.

And I can keep it in my pocket. My big nurse's pocket.

I can't wait to see the docs' expressions when I pull it out instead of a penlight.