Stick to your last

Regarding my cleft goat’s feet, no cobbler was able to help me. They all sent me to the blacksmith - or elsewhere. But I was afraid of the blacksmith, as anyone will understand? Still, I really had no choice, poor limping devil that I was.

He subsequently shoed me especially close to the glowing coals, and my fur caught fire. Quickly, he poured a font of holy water over me. And ever since, I go to the gentle village shoemaker again, with my high-heels.

[from my forthcoming anthology “In Pink Letters”]

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