On our very first visit to the local farm store after we took possession of our new rural property, Kim and I bought real, proper Muck Boots. They cost a lot but they're perfect working boots: comfortable, water proof, and warm in cool, wet weather. We felt like real farmers when we came home with those boots.
I loved those boots. They were practical and sturdy and functional, if not beautiful. I wore them whenever it was the least bit mucky. Those boots and I had a strong, committed relationship - we were tight. And then there was the incident with the B-A-L-L.
You already know how beserk Frankie gets when any remotely round object comes his way, and how hard he is on those objects - if we tried to keep him in B-A-L-L-S we would go bankrupt. So when we found one that seemed indestructible, we were thrilled. He was thrilled. He was beyond thrilled. He played with that thing obsessively, especially his favourite game which involves grabbing it in his virtually toothless mouth, squirting it out with a pop so it bounces away wildly, then chasing it like a mad fiend until he catches it and can start the game all over again. Only this time he was playing on the verandah, and when he squirted out the ball it landed right in my boot.
Frankie is nothing if not determined, especially when it comes to B-A-L-L-S. He tried and tried to get that ball out of the boot. From inside we could hear that something interesting was happening out on the verandah, but by the time we got up to investigate, it was too late. My boot was chewed.
It still could have been used - a little duct tape would have gone a long way. I was resigned to that. And then on the last visit to the local farm store I began a whole new relationship with a different pair of Muck Boots. Oh, what lovely boots.
Same comfort, same serious muck-proof functionality, all wrapped up in a pretty purple package. Kim wouldn't be seen dead in them. I love them.
(When it came time for the photo shoot for this post, Frankie got the last word, as usual...)