It’s three in the morning in Edmonton.
I woke up because my left hand was tingling. Not just tingling. It felt like someone had replaced my hand with a branding iron and forgotten to tell me.
I’ve had this problem for years. Usually I wiggle my fingers for two or three minutes, mutter unkind things about aging, and eventually the feeling comes back.
This morning was different.
Our basement had taken on a little water during the night. We’d lined the wall with thick towels, and now they were soaked. Being a fearless homeowner—and too cheap to waste good towels—I picked one up and wrung it out.
It took about fifteen seconds.
I was certain I’d just made my hand worse.
Instead…
The pain disappeared.
Completely.
Not reduced.
Not “a little better.”
Gone.
I’ve taken painkillers that worked slower than that.
Naturally, I consulted my new physician: artificial intelligence.
AI explained that wringing the towel had probably forced every muscle, tendon, nerve and blood vessel in my hand to start cooperating again. Apparently I had accidentally performed the mechanical equivalent of rebooting Windows.
Who knew?
But then my brain wandered off into dangerous territory.
If wringing a towel fixes my hand…
…perhaps it’s not the towel.
Perhaps it’s the wringing motion.
Which immediately raised an obvious scientific question.
What else gets wrung?
Chickens.
For centuries farmers have demonstrated a highly specialized rotational technique involving the neck area of a chicken. Surely there must be therapeutic value hidden in all that accumulated rural wisdom.
I’m not saying I intend to wring any chickens.
I’m merely observing that if the motion itself is the cure, I may need immediate access to one.
Which presents a practical problem.
Our house doesn’t have a chicken coop.
Yet.
I’m beginning to think I should build one beside the bedroom.
That way, the next time I wake up at three in the morning with a burning hand, I can simply wander outside in my pajamas, perform a few brisk therapeutic rotations in the general vicinity of a puzzled chicken, and return to bed pain-free.
The neighbors would undoubtedly call the police.
The police would undoubtedly call a psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist would undoubtedly publish a paper entitled The Edmonton Chicken Protocol for Nocturnal Hand Pain.
On the bright side, if the treatment catches on, I could make millions franchising sleep clinics with complimentary poultry.
“Welcome to Hand Relief Farms.”
“Our chickens are standing by.”
Meanwhile, my doctor will probably recommend something disappointingly sensible like a wrist splint.
Personally, I still think there’s untapped potential in wet towels.
They’re quieter than chickens.
