The Problem Is On My Shoes

            The problem is on my shoes.  Shucks.

            I’ve blamed it on the house and on the carpeting.  I’ve blamed it on the aging cat and the litter box.  I’ve even blamed it on my mother.  And now I find out I need to blame it on my shoes.

            Walking around here at Casa Del Gato involves some hidden hazards stemming from two big outdoor dogs and one African jungle cat (housecat-size) whose litter box is the path to my brother’s back door.

            I’ve learned to watch where I am walking, but evidently I don’t see everything.  I have learned to limit which shoes I wear outside, but evidently it is not a perfect plan. 

            Admittedly, Mom sees nothing—rather, very little—due to her macular degeneration.  There is not much I can do about her shoes.  I don’t think I’m up to checking them multiple times a day.  But I can start monitoring my own.  The rewards for my nose could be great.

            The Christian moral is too obvious for me to ignore:  stop trying to sniff out sin in others and pay attention to what I track around.