It's a Miracle!!!:

 Dave was not feeling well for a couple of days. He had an upset stomach, and a slight fever. It slowed him to the point that he didn't even want to finish his Mac&Cheese for lunch! We had appointments to look at houses, and I needed to get some Imodium and Tylenol into him just about as quickly as it could be done. We immediately repaired to the nearest alchemist and dosed the hell (and hopefully diarrhea) out of Dude. Watchful and careful, and sniffing the air continuously, we continued on our merry (?) way.
   I may have mentioned that one of David's obsessions is doors. If doors are standing open, they must be shut. If doors are shut they must be opened. If you have just traveled through a door into a house/building/garage/barn/outhouse it must not only be closed, but locked firmly behind you. (or just in front of you, if you're not quick enough to get through it with him.) He is the unofficial doorman to the world. I've lost count of the times that he's rudely brushed by me to politely hold a door for someone else, 'Right this way sir/ma'am, come on in!' , only to let the door close in my face so that he could get the next one. There are only 2 exceptions to this rule, and only one of them is absolute. The doors in our house are protected from Dude-molestation by dint of Dad's irritation. Translation: he (mostly) doesn't mess with the doors of the house because he knows it will get him yelled at. The absolute exception to the politeness rule is (as you may have guessed) elevator doors. Woe be on he or she (or even 5 year old girl) who tries to stain the sanctity of the Holy Elevator while Dude is in residence. He has peremptorily ordered little girls, old women, men and entire families to halt before they get into his elevator.

    He has ranged far and wide in his pursuit of doors. Literally. This is a longer story for another time, but while staying with my sister Anne, over one school year, to be her big, ugly, hippy-nanny, search teams had to be called on several occasions (and the cops twice) when he decided to go 'walkabout' to find new doors.  So, taking Dude on a house-hunting expedition is a lot like taking a fox on a hen-house tour. With similar results.
    Real estate agents have a new system that both Dude and I think is really neat. They each have what amounts to a garage-door opener that they point at a little safe looped and locked over a doorknob and a little drawer falls out of the bottom of it with the keys inside it. I merely thought it was a cool and clever way to get to see a house without having to go through another agent to get a key. Dude was fascinated. He leaned all the way over to get a close look at the process and the technology until he was actually hindering the agent's ability to see just what the hell she was doing. We had 4 houses to look at that day and Dude was certain that each one of them was our (his) new house. Hell, for all I know, perhaps he thought all of them were his new houses to be used on a rotating basis. Since they obviously (but mysteriously) weren't the doors to our current house, they didn't fall under the 'leave the doors alone' ban. 4 houses, 5-10 doors apiece and none of them were safe. He locked us diligently into every house we entered, tested every door, every jam, every cabinet, and everybody's patience.
    But if you looked you could see that halfway through each house he started to slow down, be a little quieter. Doors weren't slamming quite so loudly. He was staying a bit closer to me and by the end of each 'visit' he was just that much quieter during the trip to the next house. After the fourth there was a suspicious amount of silence from the back seat. After repeated answers of 'I'm fine' to our concerned queries began to sound more than a bit tired and forced we turned into the parking lot that leads to our most-frequented McDonald's.
    If I were still a practicing Catholic I'd call the Pope and put this down as one of the Miracles proving Ronald McDonald's sainthood, or at least Ray Kroc's.
    As soon as we turned the corner enough for him to make out the 'Golden Arches' a transformation came over my son, just as he was at Death's door. 'I'M FEELING MUCH BETTER NOW!' came rocketing out of the back seat. We all chuckled, thinking how cute it was. But we were unaware of the true extent of Dude's (now-former) plight. 'I... I think I can start feeling my fingers now.' he continued in a tremolos voice. 'Yes! And I can feel my legs again' As we made the turn to go around the building to get to the drive-thru line: 'IT'S A MIRACLE! I can walk again!!'  At which point I almost creamed the little arch sign at the entrance with the car. We were all cracking up so much I almost couldn't order the meal that would (supposedly) actually cure my son. But we got it done, and went home with our bag(s) full of miracles (cheeseburgers).
     I hate to say it, but we must have ordered our miracle off the Dollar Menu, because not only did Dude only eat one cheeseburger and some fries, leaving another burger and nuggets, but he immediately dragged himself upstairs and, along with just about everyone else, took a nap through the rest of the afternoon. But I'm sure that he'll be terrorizing doors and potential elevator passengers soon enough. And I'll just have to remember the, not quite, miraculous healing powers of the Mighty

Cheeseburger.