They sit by the door waiting for me. And while I may speak more about the narrowness of my very limited life than their real worth, just the fact that they're sitting there, waiting for me, makes me happy. I speak, of course, of my wonderful, brilliant, intelligently designed, calf-high rubber boots. They are a piece of industrial genius  . They are real and vibrant  , and make my life more worth living. My rubber boots are real and they do not fail me. I slip them on over my socks at a moment's notice. They go on easily. My feet feel joyful like the wagging   tail of a dog waiting for its walk. My feet know they are safe. I step outside the house and nothing can stop me--the late season snowstorm, the pool of standing water at the bottom of my doorsteps that will never give off, the mud and dirt this season brings. My feet are warm and dry and happy. And so am I. My boots are modest. They make no promise they can't keep. I found them at one-third the price of the long boots I looked at longingly for years. Mine are American-made and inexpensive and unattractive and brown and solid. They are now three years old and still look new. I know I will have them forever. I will die with them on. They are homely and they are wonderful. My rubber boots make me braver and kinder and more generous. Yes, I will get the mail. Yes, I will get the newspaper. Yes, I will walk the dog. Yes to the garbage. Yes. Yes. Yes. I have rubber boots, good strong rubber boots--and I am not afraid. We can infer from the passage that   _  .
the writer has a small life circle it must be very cold in winter where the writer lives the writer enjoys the dog wagging its tail the boots are designed by an industrial talent