Dad and Zoh.

My father was always a supporter of a healthy lifestyle - never drank, did not smoke, must have done many kilometers before breakfast, - in general, I was always far ahead of him, I just admired his energy.
The only thing I was categorically disagreeing with was that as soon as the sun was a little warmer in April, my dad began to walk barefoot. And so until October.
Oh well! You’ve already melted your legs up to size 48! I’m looking for shoes for dogs in the store. I remember, you had the size 46 before, I warned him.
But Dad was relentless – walking barefoot on the ground was helpful. And the sandals, hardly found in the store, were rolling.
Until he broke his leg. There was a need for sandals - I insisted that he should at least temporarily start wearing them.
Two days later, it was a problem again.
“Girl, look, I think I’ve caught the curtain.

I had never seen the skins of a begemot in the vicinity, but, in my sensations... My dad’s foot was something of the middle between a slate of paper and asphalt. Taze with hot water, with the evaporation of the legs for half an hour - also helped little.
For a long time, armed with a needle, I looked in, trying to find a hole. I took off my glasses, put on my glasses... Then I called my husband. We both, like the Inquisitioners, ticked the needle to the misfortune - suddenly lucky? Where is the entry?
We never found it, and we gave up. Asking Daddy not to walk barefoot anymore - you see which side you got it!
The father breathed for two days, shuddered (well, he was hindered by the unfounded slope), but stoically walked in sandals.
On the third day I couldn’t stand it, removed the hated shoe – and, oh miracle! It hurts as never before.
And in the foot of the sandalwood, piercing it through, torched the self-cut...