When the screw holding the paddock-booted foot straight on the leg of his prosthesis broke one day out hunting, his little daughter Wendy rode up alongside, pointed at the odd way his toe was turned toward the horse’s belly, and said, “Dad!” Bob, of course, corrected the situation by reversing the foot so it pointed more or less backwards. “Dad!” said the offended Wendy. “If you’re going to be like that, I’m not going to ride with you,” and turned her pony to join the juniors at the back.
Bob continued the day pretending not to notice anything unusual and at the breakfast following, parked his foot backwards on the brass foot rail at Jason Parker’s fancy bar. Harvey Goolsby, a new member but unable to hunt that day, appeared at the breakfast with his young sons, Kyle (four) and Crispin (seven). “How was the day?” Harvey asked Bob. “Well, the hunting was pretty good,” Bob replied, “but I think I twisted my ankle,” whereupon all eyes fixed on the skewed member. Kyle and Crispin’s eyes grew large as saucers, and one can only conjecture what thoughts were racing through their heads concerning their father and the hazardous sport of foxhunting.