“I took my shoes for a walk. They’re furry and they bark.”

“Sure, I have nice shoes. They’re in my closet, collecting a patina of dust. My shoes were made for dancing, and that’s why they’re dusty, because my feet, unfortunately, were not made for dancing. My feet were made for making wine, and that’s why my walk is intoxicating.”

“If you were to ask me what’s under my bed, I’d tell you shoes. They’re brown, and they’re still attached to the body that’s been decomposing there since I hid it three days ago.”

“Dancing? Not only do I have two left feet, but they’re different sizes. And I don’t put them in shoes—I store them in glass jars in my basement.”

“My shoes were all muddy, so before I walked in my friend's house I sprinkled grass clippings all over my feet and said, “Excuse the mess—I just stepped in real estate.” While the value of my words wasn’t like 2007 prices, it was still worth enough for him to let me in without making me take off my shoes.”

“My cat stood still like a furry statue. I wanted to go pet it, but I ended up petting a painting instead. Ah, but that’s life, no?”

“I like to pet trees—especially if they have furry leaves.”