I have a pair of boots that have cleaned many stalls, walked undaunted through soupy mud and cowpies, ridden over miles of amazing trails and prairies, ridden many a horse, and clung on to wanna-be broncs, chased down steers, climbed over fences and rimrock, chased and stood in dust devils, licked by dogs, ran from rattlers, and snuck up on mustangs. They've seen their share of drought, ice, snow, puddles, soggy marshes, and driving rain. They've kicked some booty, stomped to get their way, & hustled a little pool or target shooting. They've walked many miles whether concrete, packed dirt, marsh, sagebrush, grass, dust, arena dirt, gravel, and over rimrock, boulders, and sides of mountains. They are half my age and took a long time to mold to just how I want them, and now are more comfortable than slippers.

When I go out on the town to blow some steam and play pool at a tavern, I kick some dirt off & proudly wear them with grit, scuff marks, and their share of scars. One thing they refuse to do, however, is dance... not because they can't.

It's an easy habit to notice others' boots, which tell their own stories by the shape they're in, whether they're hard working & real riding or buckaroo boots, or just clean & shiny wanna-be weekend or fair-weather show-off boots to give an impression. Boots tell a lot about a person and the kind of person they are, but mostly if they ride and how well they sit a saddle.

My boots' stories about me?... They've been sworn to silence.