If anyone wants to buy me anything for Christmas (I'm looking at you, Daughters Number One and Two) you can get me slippers. I know it sounds cliché and cheesy, but I really like slippers—with these hard floors, it's nice to have something soft underfoot.
Currently I have around five pairs, but only one of each. That's on account of the dog, who likes to carry a slipper around in her mouth. She wakes me up (at five a.m., almost on the dot) and picks up my slipper next to my bed. She usually carries it over to her "bed" (the couch) and leaves it there, but sometimes it ends up who-knows-where.
And when the doorbell rings, she grabs a slipper and greets whoever is at the door with a slipper hanging from her mouth. (Better than underwear!) Sometimes she heads out the front and returns without my slipper. My neighbors probably wonder why so many slippers turn up in their garden.
When the dogsitter's here, she does the same with her slippers, or sometimes she finds mine and hides them.
I've tried to bargain with her: "Find my slipper, I'll give you a treat! Okay, a bone then. Two bones and a treat."
Doesn't work; she doesn't see the need to produce my slippers on command. Maybe if they were treat-scented.
Anyway, that's what I want. Nice, comfy slippers. Something at least that the neighbors will be impressed with when it turns up beneath the hydrangea.
