Get ready for it. This post is about one woman’s obsession to find a pair of shoes that fit and what failing in that quest cost her.
Cinco got me two days ago. It’s not the first time he’s head butted me and it won’t be the last time. In Cinco’s defense I know he’s head butting out of sheer instinct. There’s not a mean bone in his body.
Presenting him with the opportunity to hit you is like putting cake in front of the piggy girls. It’s just gonna happen. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he doesn’t hit hard enough to leave a bruise and he’s never once landed a second hit—although he’s drawn back as if he might be considering it. That said, if he wanted to, he could kill me. He could certainly break bones even at his somewhat small, eighty-odd pounds.
When I had him sheared, the shearer complained that he was all muscle.
This time wouldn’t have been any worse than the rest if I had been alert to what was happening with Tiny and if I hadn’t been wearing my (not so) little pink Crocs.
Until this spring, I hadn’t been a Croc fan, not when they first appeared, not when jewelry for them appeared and not even when they came out in brightly colored patterns. I’m usually a sucker for anything brightly colored. What put these odd looking plastic shoes in the treasured spot beside my door was the combination of being hot pink and only $2.00 on sale at Tractor Supply.
You know your life has changed when you stop shopping for shoes at Nordstrom’s and instead eye the sale rack at Tractor Supply. Frankly, I have as good a chance of finding a pair of shoes that fit at a farm supply store as I do…
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