This morning, I had to stop at the cobbler. You know, the shoe repair guy's place. (I know, cobbler sounds so ancient and too-prim and/or proper.)
I was dropping off shoes that I needed fixed in time for an event I'm going to tomorrow night. These are fancy, pointy shoes that I seldom wear, and the last time I'd worn them, I realized way too late that the rubber heels had become detached from the shoes (as in, while at church!).
And of course, this discovery was made after I'd clomped all through our hardwood-floored house while trying them on and testing them out, noting that I was curiously less steady on them than usual.
Plus, didn't they seem extraordinarily clacky, I'd asked Mr. Spandrel?
I dunno, he shrugged.
A quick look at the bottom made it clear I'd been walking on the connector screws instead of the rubber heels that had once been there! Gah!
Luckily, I didn't seem to gouge the floor anywhere I can discern. But I digress...
So I walk into the shoe repair store, and I'm not alone: a little puppy is barking like crazy, runs over and starts clamoring around my legs, jumping up, pawing and snurfling at my knees with excitement.
Her enthusiasm is palpable - and catching!
The shoe repair guy, aghast, runs out from behind his counter to corral the puppy, only to inspire her to think we're all three engaged in a game of "catch me!"
Around and around the store we spiral around each other, the three of us, a cacophony of barks, "sorry!s" and "whoops!"
Each time the proprietor tries to scoop up the puppy, she scampers away and runs hither and yon, her tongue and tail wagging in triple time.
Should anyone else have walked in, it would have seemed quite the spectacle.
I dodge, but the puppy lunges, until finally there's a tiny break in the action. And suddenly this puppy, wound tighter than a rubber band, propels herself into the cobbler arms in a little heap and calm is restored in the pocket-sized shop.
Just. Like. That.
I spent the rest of the morning with a goofy grin on my face.