Dear Owner, my wonderful Owner,
I represent the epitome of form, and function. A presumptuous statement, to be sure, but not one that is entirely unwarranted. A collector’s item, but the general apathy associated with those bums the Baseball Cards does not apply to me. You'll take me out to the longest of jogs, but I don't need the constant washing of those sweaty Shirts. Everywhere you go, I follow. I'm definitely more loyal than your average cat, and even a dog would be hard pressed to be more loyal than I, unless this dog happens to be a combination of Ol' Yeller, Lassy, and your dog Tutu.
What would you do without me, your shoes? Sure, I may be more than a bit smelly at times, but I never leave your side, or more accurately, your feet. The padding, cradling your feet in what seems to be the softest of sensations, brings to you a bliss rarely found on this Earth. Every movement is a yet another perfect moment of absolute ecstasy upon your feet, my offering to you, and I ask nothing in return. I am always there for you. I will never walk away from you, as long as you never walk away from me. I happily wait for you when you need a rest, never being impatient. If you run, I shall run with you. If you creep, I shall creep with you, even if you are one yourself.
Without me, what would come to your feet? The numerous foot afflictions, such as flat foot, frostbite, or even god forbid, a stubbed toe, make me nervous just to think about them, much less to have you experience them! Every scuff mark I suffer, every stitch that is torn, every square inch of soiled fabric is a badge of honor. I gladly endure the winter chill, the endless rains, the blazing heat; the elements are all endured for you. Even on the occasion when you left me outside overnight, where I must play host to spiders and night crawlers, I forgive you for your forgetfulness, and continue to perform at my best. It is a dangerous world out there for a pair of bare feet, and I shall be your ever vigilant protector.
I must admit, though, I often feel nervous as time goes on. I often see you throw out other of my comrades in a painful selection, yet you often skip past me in this process. Whether for nostalgic or cosmetic reasons, I have yet to be submitted to the Trash Can, a place of mystery to us who reside in the shoe rack. I fear that perhaps one day, this state of affair will cease, and you shall discard me as you have so many others before, resigning me to the mystery of the Trash Can and whatever heaven lies beyond.
With Love,
Your Shoes
PS: Excuse me for the recent stink. I blame your socks. Please change them more often.
Because you and I both know you wouldn’t change me.
Or would you?
