My tall Hunter wellies are well, shall we say, worn-in. No longer are they fashionable British rain boots. After several years of mud and chickens and brush clearing and dogs, they’re farm boots now.
Every time I go to put them on, I’m reminded of riding in the car not long ago. James is driving and I’m in the passenger seat. For some reason my boots come up in conversation and the boys start to giggle. That same stifled giggle from years ago when they thought they were pulling one over on me by referring to their derrieres as bum-bums.
I glance into the backseat suspiciously, “What’s so funny you two?”
“Daddy used your boot to kill a mouse.”
Yep… the rodent blogs just keep on coming.