Bootwick -- or, as his friends call him, Boot -- stood on the footstool and stared at me.
If I was reading his boot body language correctly, he seemed a little put out.
But then again, I'm no boot-body-language expert.
"A mutual understanding?" I couldn't stop repeating his words like an idiotic parrot. My brain was still trying to catch up with the ridiculous notion that I was having a conversation with a piece of medical equipment -- the same piece of medical equipment that had made my last few weeks as annoying as all get-out.
"Your anger is misdirected, little sheila."
For real? Little sheila? Because I'm six times taller than you, Crocodile Dundee accent aside. And as he spoke, I couldn't stop thinking of this scene from Tropic Thunder, and a smile twitched the corners of my mouth.
He ignored my sniggering and charged ahead with his case: "I'm not the cause of your misery; the bone spur in your ankle is. That podiatrist you saw didn't go to medical school all those years just to torture people. Without me, that little spur would have the better of you."
For some incomprehensible reason, I dignified this sentient piece of footwear's argument. I must be out of my fool mind. "Yeah, well, tomorrow's your D-Day, my little galosh friend. You and I have an appointment with our podiatrist who abides by the Geneva Conventions, and she's going to give us a timeline as to how quickly I can get you out of my life.
"I really don't see what point there is in talking about any of this. This is all just a matter of time, really. Two weeks, four weeks, six weeks -- you're out of here eventually." I leaned forward and poked him with a finger. He rocked back and forth; without my leg to anchor him, he really was quite unstable.
His his eyebrows rose and, I know a boot doesn't have a proper face, but I would swear he frowned. "And -- and when you don't need me anymore?"
"You'll go in the back of the closet."
"Oh." The sound came out like air gushing from a deflating balloon, his velcro eyebrows falling in dismay. He seemed to gather himself. "And the cats, do they go into the closet?"
I sat up straight, my head tilted to the side in puzzlement. "Um, yeah. Of course they do. They're cats." And then it dawned on me what this entire conversation was truly about. "Do they -- the cats, I mean -- bother you when you're not on my foot?"
Boot sighed again. "The dog isn't too bad; he sniffs and slobbers, but never does anything untoward. The cats, I believe, have mistaken me for a scratching post." Here he glowered over my shoulder, and I realized Gray Cat was lurking on the back of the chair.
If you think he looks haughty, you're correct. He looks like this every minute
of every day. It's his default setting. He is a cat, after all.
I reached back to absently scratch the cat's ears as Boot continued. "Orange Cat isn't too bad. But that one" -- here he tipped forward, rocking up onto his toes as though trying to point at Gray Cat -- "gets me in a bear hug and rabbit-kicks me until I'm cross-eyed."
You don't have eyes, Boot. Only little velcro eyebrows. For some reason, I felt saying this aloud would have been spiteful, so I held my tongue.
"Well ... we have shelves in the closet."
His little eyebrows rose hopefully. "Shelves?"
I nodded. "High ones."
He shook his little boot self. "But you might need me for a while longer, right? At least a few weeks?"
It was my turn to sigh as I fell back into the chair. "Geez, I hope not. Maybe the podiatrist has a magic serum to fix my ankle and I can put you in the closet tomorrow."
If you think he looks crestfallen, you're correct. It was one of the more
pathetic things I've ever seen.
"Is it dark in the closet?"
Oh wow, Boot is a freak sentient piece of footwear, AND he's neurotic. Fan-flippin-tastic. "It isn't too bad. Let's see what the podiatrist says this afternoon, okay? Then we'll work out the details."
He still looked glum. "Okay, sheila."
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