Which I think is Italian for the dog ate my shoes. It makes a change from homework I suppose.
I am a shoe person. Shoes and bags. Probably because they always look beautiful whatever size you wear. Not expensive shoes and bags, I never spend a lot, and at least in the case of shoes, having long feet (sounds more elegant somehow than big – essentially the same thing) means that I can often find the right size lurking forlornly on the sale racks. I admire shoes, like I rarely admire clothes, and the shoes in question were a much admired pair.
Not pretty so much as classic. Tan leather, the smallest of heels, high enough to wear with longer jeans, low enough to walk for hours in. Casual enough for a trip to the supermarket, smart enough for work, comfortable enough for an afternoon at the shops. In short, the ideal shoe.
They were pretty worn. The heels were long gone, and they clip-clopped on hard floors where the metal had come through. I didn’t like wearing them if I might have to take them off and reveal the discoloured, dishevelled lining. They had come close to being disposed of on more than one occasion. I always held back though, instead opting to keep them until I could find a replacement pair.
I duly purchased some in a similar style for honeymoon, and nearly put the early kibosh on the marriage as they scuppered our day trip round Toronto, inflicting blisters the size of baseballs. So the replacements were put deep in the back of the wardrobe on our return and the old faithfuls restored to that prized position right at the front, ready and in reach.
Until last night. Last night when the dog seemed worryingly quiet. Just a little too peaceful curled up at our feet under the kitchen table. I am not naïve, I peered to see what was occupying her and was relieved to see her chew toy in her paws. However clever I thought I was being, Millie was smarter. The plastic bone may well have been in reach, however it was simply a decoy. Behind it, out of view was one of the shoes. A shoe, which, when we stood from the table, was in pieces. The elegant strip of leather that had been folded into a bow on the front was now fragmented across the floor. Admittedly it was worn to begin with, but now it had more hole than sole.
The shoe, and its partner, have been binned. The search for a replacement pair will have to begin. And perhaps the search for a replacement dog too…