These Boots were Made for...

Thank goodness there’s a computer to tell me what day it is.  Not the date; just the DAY.

Yes, it’s Sunday, the day of the week I’ve always relished, whether or not I was an income-tax-paying gal.  Last night I considered, for the umpteenth-time, attending church in the morning.  Even washed my hair.

But no…I can communicate with whichever higher power any day of the week.  And I’m still not looking for a date.

 

So I slipped on a recent acquisition during the Summer’s Road Trip back-and-forth East this Summer; a real splurge for me, but one I’ve learned to be immensely practical where I live (in the mountains of Southern Oregon):

Cowgirl boots.  I particularly liked the worn-leather finish, because I really want to look like I fit in, whenever I get the nerve to go into another CW place and put a quarter in the jukebox.  Or whatever they do nowadays.

 

In any event, they have to be broken in just like anyone else’s boots, so I slipped them on and took BC for a walk.  While I felt like a Hobbit, I managed not to fall on my como-se-llama as she pulled me down the gravel road.  BC’s strong, and her cattle-instincts are in full swing these days.

 

My neighborhood has no paved roads.  But unlike my Reefs (which were beginning to act like skis), these boots held their ground, supported my previously-broken ankle on uneven surfaces, and had me feeling more comfortable regarding snakes.  I walk with my walking stick and a few rocks in a pocket, always on the lookout for loose dogs that are protecting their flocks from Bobcats and Mountain Lions.  We don’t stray too far from home, you can imagine.

 

I learned in Puerto Rico that when confronted with a pack of Satos, just pick up some stones, chuck ‘em, and they’d skedaddle.  But the Captain would rag,

 

“Pebbles, Andrea, not boulders!”

Why didn’t he say so in the first place?  Well, better safe than sorry, and since I throw like a girl (and generally miss what I aim at), apparently the size of the missile made an impact.  Or perhaps it was my accompanying behavior.

 

I’ve learned, among other things, that I eventually get what I need, sometimes what I wish for (got to be careful there), and often what I’d never dreamed.

 

So imagine how ironic to find a photo of boots I’d drooled over (for over $1,000) in an art gallery in Santa Fe.  Now look at mine, picked up for a song on a long stretch of road in the middle of Kansas.  It’s not too much of a stretch to imagine turning mine into theirs with some decorative painting and upholstery tacks.  But that would be the end of their dog-walking duties.

 

Think I’ll go rent Urban Cowboy.