I have two feet. One of them is suitable to be shown in public. Its callouses are an artful expression of my love of running. The bottom is not too rough and not too smooth. Betwixt my toes there is no jam, gungus or schmegma. The nails grow evenly and strong. The top of my foot is cool and clear of blemishes.
Its partner is not so lucky. The top of this foot is engulfed in an itchy hot splotch that radiates from above the arch across a great circle to my smallest toe, whose nail is misformed and often grows just long enough to slice into the neighboring toe, drawing blood before I clip it. (The site of a bloody sock at the end of a race is a good one, I believe.) The rest of the nails don’t fare much better, and the one on the big toe persists with its constant threat to become ingrown.
Between these toes is a foul smelling substance which, when given enough perspiration, makes its own gravy. The desire to scratch between these toes produces a cycle of misery and sweet relief which will be understood by tobacco addicts. Flossing betwixt these phalanges with a sock brings the most joy but is rife with the risk of overdoing it. Plus there are the little pieces of dead skin.
Which the dog seems to like, along with the broken pustuals on the bottom of this foot. He licks those things up, which is helpful after they have been busted open by a furious scratching. There is great unction in the tongue of a dog. That’s also kind of gross, because who knows where else he has been putting his tongue? Wherever that was, it has tremendous, if temporary, restorative powers. Yet tomorrow I will again hang my foot off the side of my bed as I write to you and allow the seven pound mound of hound to feast on my ecsemated foot flesh.