Lost Boots

It began with a wolf latching onto my poor boot and tearing it straight off my foot. At least I managed to grab my sack and bolt before that fanged maw snapped shut on my calf. The pack was far more interested in the smell of goat meat sizzling over the fire than in my rapidly retreating carcass, so I made it to the ruins and waited out the night under a roof—accompanied only by the disgruntled complaints of my empty stomach. But no sooner had I—hungry and short on sleep—stepped beyond the ruins to gather ripe corn than an enormous goat set upon me! The wretched beast chased me across the entire field without pause, lunging again and again, intent on goring me. I lost my second boot on the run and, without looking, plunged through the floor of yet another ruin. Only then did the goat finally lose interest, parting with a triumphant cry, as if the victory were its own. My beloved boots are a bitter loss—I paid the buccaneers a whole handful of good, full-weight piastres for them. While hauling myself out of the rubble, I shredded my hands and feet on thorns. They say crocodile leather makes fine boots… but with my luck, I've no business hunting crocodiles. Naturally, I didn't go back for my things, though I did manage—out of habit—to stash a few items beneath the tree marked with a red cloth. — from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler