The Boot Goes On ... and On ... and On ...

There was no getting around it: Boot was smug. Worse than that, he was a smug show-off.

"Are these insoles as flattering as I think they are?" he cooed in his Australian accent, twisting his little boot body sideways so I could see. "I think they make me look sleeker!"

"They make you look like an old lady," I grumbled. Boot had reason enough to be self-satisfied. He had tried to convince me the podiatrist knew the Geneva conventions and wasn't out to cause me pain. I now had solid evidence to the contrary, in the form of orthopedic insoles and another mandatory week toting around my little Australian sidekick (wait ... would he technically be a "foot"-kick? Eh, semantics).

Boot couldn't be happier about having another week out and about, instead of being relegated to a top shelf of the closet. Since our last big talk, I'd kept him within eyesight when he was off my foot so the cats wouldn't use him as a scratching post. His spirits had risen considerably.

"Just because you didn't like what the podiatrist had to say doesn't give you license to be cranky," Boot said as he steadied himself on the TV stand. Edward had taken up residence in one of the upper cubbies, and he peered down at us with clear interest.

He does have a flair for stalking, doesn't he? He doesn't dare 

stalk Buffy and there isn't a little Bella around, so he's taken to watching Boot.

"It's time for a second opinion," I told Boot, ignoring Edward. "I simply cannot tote you around for much longer. I need to go for jogs, you see. It keeps me sane. It gets me and the kids to the park so the kids can run. Everybody's happier that way. We've got to retire you to the closet sooner rather than later."

Preoccupied with his new insole and hardly listening to me, Boot did another spin. "These do make me look slimmer!"

A soft throat-clearing caught my attention; Edward was staring down at me with a strange gleam in his amberbutterscotchgolden eyes. "I could help with that. I have a couple of medical degrees, you know."

"Oh Edward, that's very sweet of you," I said slowly, searching for some excuse that would not hurt his feelings. "But you know how HM feels about little hands ... and idle time ... and ankles ... and ..." I trailed off, staring at him in embarassment.

"Idle hands are the devil's plaything, which has nothing to do with the size of my hands or my offer to help," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest, his little brow drawing down in consternation. "I know HM doesn't like me. Few men do. I mean, I get it, being around someone as Adonis-like as me would be difficult. It would negatively impact HM's self-esteem."

"Yes, and if you were the one who fixed my ankle, HM would never live down the shame," I replied, bobbing my head in quick agreement. "Looking for a medical opinion from outside the house would be best."

"All right, for the sake of HM's ego. But if this new doctor doesn't work out, I'm still here."

Here in your little cubby, Edward? Hardly a medical office. Mattel is too busy making Barbie's pooping dogs to bother with functional doll-sized medical equipment, otherwise I might just be desperate enough to take you up on the offer. 

I stopped Boot as he executed another pirouette, putting him on the floor. "With any luck, this new podiatrist will have something more productive to say and you won't have to worry about it at all, Edward."