Do you every wonder, when you see a single boot in the road, how it came to be lolling solitarily on the gravel? Probably not. Which means you live in civilization. I, on the other hand, inhabit Hillmomba.
It was black rubber boot, the kind sold by The Devil, popular with cow-milkers and concrete-shovelers and kids dying to make the most of a snow day. Bootsie was not there when The Pony and I left for school this morning. A pounding rain had arrived around 4:30 a.m., complete with lightning and thunder and moderate winds. By 6:50, the air held the humid promise of a sweltering afternoon. But there was nary a raindrop to be found.
Parts of our gravel road had been sluiced into channels. The Grand Chasm on the first hill had deepened. But the run-off had dissipated quickly. Not even the creek was advertising the downpour.
Bootsie lay abandoned in the afternoon. My scenario says a good ol' boy in a pickup taking a shortcut happened upon the newly exposed boulder just before the Grand Chasm. A bone-jarring, tooth-rattling landing after his four-wheel-drive hillbilly cruiser went airborne might have jarred Bootsie loose. I picture Bootsie minding his own business, stuffed upside down next to his mate in the crack between the cab and the bed of the truck. Next thing he knew, he was taking a chat nap all by his lonesome. Next case. I'm not connected to Mystery Inc. with a red phone for nothin', you know.
I really hope that Scavenger H does not pick up Bootsie and bring him home. Just in case we ever need a single boot in a size nobody here wears.