This is 100% a true story.
I realize that someone who writes scary stories may be hard to believe, and my posting it on April 1st doesn’t lend any credence to any statement of truth, but I can’t help it. It’s true.
For the last couple of months, I’ve been wearing these sports slides around the house in lieu of shoes or slippers (because slipping). Also for the last couple of months, my feet have hurt like bastards. I have size 14 feet, and they are a pain in my ass.
Anyway, like many writers, I am a creature of habit and rituals. I make a cup of tea before I sit down to write. I have my favorite pens (I have every pen with which I’ve signed a book contract). I like to wear comfortable clothes and shoes while writing, so nothing is distracting. Blah blah blah. That means kicking off my shoes (under my dresser) and putting on those slides (which I leave at the foot of my bed). Getting dressed is the reverse: I kick off my slides at the foot of the bed, throw on whatever, then grab a pair of shoes from under my dresser. Standard operating procedure.
Last week, I got ready to leave the house as usual. Kicked off my slides at the foot of my bed, put on some shoes and went on my merry way. But when I came home, no slides at the foot of my bed, near my bed, under my bed. I had to dig some pre-season flip flops of of the wardrobe. They haven’t been seen since.
Now, there are animals in the house. The tarantulas don’t leave their tanks. The hedgehog only leaves his enclosure under supervision. Also, neither species is strong enough to walk off with a pair of size 14 slides. Three cats could, maybe if they worked together. They haven’t previously been interested in my shoes except for those with laces. Cats being cats, this is not unusual.
Kirby, the dog, is only interested in my leaving-the-house-shoes, because that means walks, fetch, and pooping–all of which he enjoys. While he tried to eat a vintage overstuffed chair when he was a puppy, he has since eschewed inappropriate chewing. Plus, if he ate them, there would be pieces around (remind me to tell you the Tale of Tickle Me Elmo some day), and any eaten remains to be picked up with poop. No sign of either.
So, it’s a locked room mystery of a sort. Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Freakish Monkey Feet, or The Nancy Boys and the Incident of the Slippery Slippers. They still haven’t reappeared. My feet, however, have stopped hurting so much. So. So, what? I don’t know what that means.
Did Casper the Podiatrist steal away with my fallen-arch-nemesis slippers? I don’t know. It’s no stranger, or less plausible that the cats teaming up to drag them off somewhere. But it’s bothering me.
I’ll think about it and get back to you.