Shoe tragedy

Last Sunday I worked an awards ceremony for our university. It’s very similar to working graduation — but smaller. I stand in the entrance of the venue and make sure the kids have filled out both sides of these cards. The one side has their name and award. If the pronunciation of the name is unusual, they are to phonetically spell the name so the nomenclator has a fighting chance of announcing it correctly as the award is given.

When the ceremony is about to begin, I go and stand next to the nomenclator hand him the cards to read and take them from him when he’s finished. This is usually done in piles of 25 or so. I have to make sure the cards are in order when given and when received. It’s not only for the kids; it’s also for the photographers. There were three photographers taking pics of each student before, during and after. If the cards get messed up, the proper person won’t be receiving that photo.

This means I want to dress nicely. I might not be seen once I’m backstage, but I want to look presentable in case I’m in a shot. I also want to look professional since I represent both the photography company and the university.

Sunday I decided to rock my inner Jackie O. I was wearing a retro-looking suit, very reminiscent of the 60s. My shoes have to be comfortable enough that I can stand for about 2 hours straight with possible short bouts jogging included. I have one pair of shows that really fit the bill and one that is my “if I must” pair. I grabbed the go-to pair and ::gasp:: saw evidence of kitty destruction! Pumpkin isn’t the fashion hound that Pye is. She doesn’t pay any attention to shoes or bags.

Pyewacket likes leather-esque materials. He has clawed and chewed a Kindle cover and a Namaste bag. I have seen him with his nose in my leather ankle boots and my leather mid-calf boots, but he usually just hides one of his toys in them. Or in one of my trainers.

But there it was — the crime scene. My go-to shoes were murdered. They were clawed and chewed. Large chunks were displaced on the heel and toe of each shoe. Teeth marks peppered the sides.

I immediately started grabbing other pairs. My Iron Fists were ok except for divot on the one stiletto. Truthfully, that could have happened during normal wear and tear. Nothing a Sharpie won’t fix.

My black and white heels — not so lucky. Mom didn’t see much wrong at first. When I angeled them into the light a little better, mom paled a little. Huge scratches on the heel and toe, along the side and signs of gnawing — GNAWING — all along the arch and sole. My black and whites were gone. ::sob::

Slowly, I turned and looked at the culprit. He sat there, washing his hands and face. I think he was trying to erase all DNA evidence. I reminded myself of the fact he might be a big boy, but Pye is still a kitten. I simply told him what my mom still tells me: “You’re not too big to turn over my knee, ya know.” Pye was unimpressed.

Those shoes are gone now. They served a purpose. They were my “carrot” during knee-replacement rehab.

As they say, when one door closes, another door to a shoe store opens. This tragedy tells me I have to go buy more shoes.

These are on their way. I think they might ease the pain just a little.