I had just gone upstairs to watch a show on channel nine when I heard a commotion downstairs.

Scruffling of dog claws on hardwood, the stomping of feet and then up the stairs they came, with some alarm and through the door to the bedroom.

Mrs. Anthony had a terrible, wide-eyed look on her face and her hands at her throat.

"I ...can't...breathe," she gasped.

Believe me you, that is not a scene you would wish on anyone.

I leapt to my feet and spun her around and began, apparently and completely out of some instinct, to apply the Heimlich maneuver to her, my balled up fist beneath my other palm, up under her sternum, with force applied with urgency, enough to force a blockage to come flying out of her mouth and onto the carpet, where the scampering dogs were doing circles of confusion.

Letting her back down on her feet, Mrs. Anthony was still holding her throat in shock as shuffled to the bathroom sink for water.

I was shaking a little as the dogs ate whatever had come out of her mouth, which turned out to be a piece of chicken Mrs. A had attempted to swallow just after taking a mouthful of herb capsules.

After she had recovered enough to explain, she said that she had taken a few herbs, which she encapsulates herself in gelatin caps from a bulk supply, had then eaten a bite of cold chicken because she was hungry.

The caps had not gone all the way down, sticking in her throat and the subsequent water she normally drinks to help in swallowing was blocked by the chicken snack. That's when she had run upstairs to find me.

I have never really known what the Heimlich maneuver is, except for what I've read about or seen on TV, usually relegating the term to some joke whenever a large amount of food is present or some other less gustatory, reason like my reaction to a bad film or questionable dance move.

So I surprised myself with this new talent, the grateful Mrs. Anthony looking at me even more adoringly than before, and though I'm not ready to join the ranks of paramedics or ER physicians, I feel like a minor super hero.

Still, I wondered how I knew what to do, when previously my reaction to instant emergencies was to run around, look for a phone or car keys and end up with an empty fire extinguisher.

I knew that the procedure was pioneered by a doctor, hence the name, but that was all. In my online research, I found the following, interesting tidbit:

"Dr. Henry J. Heimlich was born in Wilmington, Delaware in 1920. He is

best known for the choking treatment named after him. Heimlich first published his findings on the use of this maneuver in 1974, and within a week a newspaper reported it had been used to save a choking victim.

"In 2003, Heimlich's 30-year colleague, Edward A. Patrick MD. PhD of Union, Kentucky, claimed to be the uncredited co-developer of the maneuver. Heimlich also helped promote a personal friend, the ventriloquist Paul Winchell, who claimed to have developed the first artificial heart."

This is interesting for a number of reasons, the first of which is that, if not for a news-hungry journalist making note of the maneuver's successful use on a choking victim, the name Heimlich might never had become the household word it is today. I feel complicit somehow.

The American Heart Association and the American Red Cross both included Heimlich's treatment for choking in their published guidelines.

Since that story came out, however, in 2006 both organizations revised those recommendations to downplay the maneuver, favoring "backslaps" first and changing "Heimlich manuever" to "abdominal thrusts" as a secondary treatment.

Now, imagine the chagrin of Dr. Heimlich's partner, who spent all those years peeved at Henry for stealing the limelight, only to learn that he had been spared the embarrassment of what might otherwise have been called the "Patrick Maneuver," thereby sullying his name today.

Also, there is the odd fact that Heimlich felt it was important to promote his pal, Paul Winchell, who was a ventriloquist and possible inventor of the first artificial heart.

Mr. Winchell's dummy partner, "Knucklehead Smiff" was arguably more famous than Paul himself.

Now imagine yourself grabbing someone from behind and horsing them around like a stuffed doll trying to make them cough up something and you've nearly become a ventriloquist as well as a hero.

Though Dr. Heimlich and the American Heart Association might chafe, I'm sure Knucklehead Smiff would approve.