Warning: This post has absolutely nothing to do with writing.
Somewhere outside, under the snow, is one of my shoes. The wife (no, she is "the wife" for this story; I am not sure I want to claim her by calling her "my wife"), anyways, the wife threw one of my shoes out the door at the stray dog that keeps coming over and eating all the cat food that we put on the porch for the poor straving kitties in the neighborhood.
She did not tell me about the fact that one of my shoes was outside until yesterday----when the snow was already too deep to attempt to find it. She says that she forgot that she did so; that is believable, she forgets to tell me a lot of things until days later.
It wouldn't have been so bad, except last week she made me toss in the trash a couple of pairs of my shoes that had ceased to be usable. No, she has to threw a good shoe at the dog. And she couldn't threw one of the many unread papers that are by the door either.
I think that she owes me a new pair of shoes, considering it is going to be a couple of days before I can attempt to find this one. By then it will be nice and soggy, and well on the way to the trash.