"Tom! Butterbeer, please!" Michael ordered, snapping his fingers.
"Oi!" The bartender laughed. "You never drank a butterbeer in your life, Michael!"
"Not for me, you nit!" Michael shook his head, as Tom drew a butterbeer and delivered it. "On the tab, Tom."
"Of course it is," Tom said, putting the mug on the table. "Don't you let them pee on the table, you hear? I know they can't be housebroken yet."
"They're two inches long," MIchael scowled. "How much do you think they actually pee?"
"Not the point, Tremaine!" Tom said, going back to the bar. Michael looked back at the young man.
"In answer to your real question, yes, the footstools are enchanted. They believe they're cocker spaniels. When they grow up, if you refer to them as furniture, they do get quite insulted." He continued to feed the little footstool puppies pieces of black socks. "I have no idea why they eat socks. And they have to be black--unless you want to give them the occasional treat. They will eat the patches off an argyle sock, but not often. For some reason, its too rich for them to eat much of.
"As for why I have them? Two reasons. First, they came with my house, more or less. And second, my goddaughter thinks I need a pet in my life and her father thinks its funny to let me struggle with footstools that procreate. He has no intention of telliing me how to spay or neuter a footstool. So--my footstools end up having litters of puppies." He watched two of the little puppies arguing over a piece of sock, growling at each other, and each tugging on an end of the bite of sock.
"Hey," Michael said. "No squabbling. There's enough for everybody. Look." He picked up another piece of sock for them and, they both wanted the new piece, abandoning the old piece. "Oh, that figures. It tastes the same as the last piece, you know."
"I'm Michael. Michael Tremaine. So..while they eat my last new pair of socks," Michael said., looking at the young man "how about telling me who you are?"