I won't be seeing Bootwick for a while

Wondering what's the deal with Bootwick? Catch up with these previous entries.

The second podiatrist, the one who actually knew what a human foot looked like (as opposed to the first, clueless podiatrist), realized that a strained tendon was the culprit for my pain. Once the physical therapist got hold of me, it was only a matter of time before I didn't need Bootwick anymore.

This did not sit well with my moody Australian friend.

"But what if that ankle flares up again, little sheila?" he sputtered as I carried him to the closet. Edward peeked around the doorframe as Boot wiggled in my grasp. (There was no need for Edward to sneak about -- he could have observed us openly if he wished -- but I think creeping is in his nature. He can't help himself.) "What if, in the middle of the grocery store, your ankle collapses and you have no way to get to the checkout line, much less the car?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Bootwick. My ankle isn't going to collapse. It's much better, thanks to the physical therapist." There was a pregnant pause, and a pointed look from Boot, and I hastily added, "And thanks to you, of course!"

"You need me!" he wailed.

It's the other way around, my friend. I didn't give voice to the thought; I didn't want to further wound his pride. "I cleared a spot on a shelf for you, just high enough so the cats can't reach. See?"

It looks nice enough to me, but I confess I have no idea 

what qualifies as suitable housing for a sentient medical boot.

He eyed the prospect warily. "It's so ... stark. Could you find a picture to put on the wall, or a decorative statue to keep me company?"

"Edward will come visit you, I'm sure; Buffy won't talk to him and he's very lonely," I said, gesturing to the doorframe. Edward ducked back, chagrined that we had seen him.

Boot didn't hear me. Boot didn't see Edward. Boot's attention was riveted to an even higher shelf. "The cats could still reach me down here -- they jump better than the 'roos back home. I'd be much more comfortable up there."

I followed his gaze and my mouth dropped open. "Oh. I see." Sitting on the top shelf was a long-forgotten pair of Italian boots. I hadn't worn them since the birth of PL1, and they had a smattering of dust over them, but they still looked lovely. Boot had certainly noticed.

"Yes, that shelf would suit!" Boot said, his Australian accent deepening.

And I swear, Dear Reader, I heard a soft giggle from the top shelf -- from those Italian boots. A distinctly feminine giggle.

"Oh for pete's sake," I huffed, my cheeks turning pink. I scooted over one of the Italian boots and made room for Bootwick. He sighed happily and I made a beeline for the door; I didn't want to hear or see anything else.

 His little velcro eyebrows waggled at those Italian boots. It was very disturbing.

Later that afternoon, when I came to the closet for a clean shirt, I found that Boot had made quite an impression on the rest of my footwear. The hanging shoe storage was empty; most of the occupants (don't ask me how) had made their way up to Boot. They were all enthralled by this new stranger, so big and strong and strangely lacking of a twin.

The girly shoes like Boot best. I don't ask too many questions about all this. 

I just go into the closet for my clothes and get out as fast as I can.

I don't think I could drag Bootwick out of the closet now, even if I tried.