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I work in a specialized shoe store. We do alligator shoes. Not shoes made from alligators; they’re shoes made for alligators.

You may think alligators don’t need shoes. After all, they’ve been walking around swamps for hundred of millions of years without them. And their feet are odd-shaped, crooked and distinctly unsuitable for footwear.

Of course you are right. Alligators don’t need shoes and normal shoes don’t fit on their feet. Ah, but alligators want shoes, and that’s what really counts, isn’t it? And we sell shoes specially designed to fit their crooked feet.

That’s where I come in. I’m a salesman. My name’s Leo. Pleased to meet you.

So, tell me if you’ve heard this one: an alligator walks into a shoe store. Happens all the time. He’s one of my regulars. I called him Wally, after the cartoon. He never says anything, rarely opens his mouth which, from my perspective is a good thing.

Of course, I know Wally’s size and tastes, so I bring out a few select quads. (They come in quads, not pairs, for obvious reasons.)

Wally leaves with four quads, and wears the fancy ones out of the store. They’re two-toned brown and white slip-ons with tassels and a Goodyear welt. Waterproof, sensible yet stylish—just the thing for hanging around the Everglades. He also bought some Crocs.

I thank Wally and he heads next door to continue shopping, this time at LaCoste.