When asked how things were going, a good friend recently cackled: "My wife treats me like God. She only talks to me when she wants something."

Ain't that the truth.

With human nature, it seems -- in cliche-speak -- the squeaky wheel gets the grease, you don't miss water till the well runs dry, you never know what you've got till it's gone, and there's no "I" in team.

These idioms hold a deeper hidden meaning -- except for the last one, which I just threw in because I've always liked it: We take things for granted, often not even realizing they're there, until they're gone.

And, here, you might think I'm talking about my hair, or hearing, or calcifying back. No, those are so yesterday. Recently, my feet are the "squeaky wheel."

When I was young, I never thought about my feet. Now, at 77, I find "them dogs are barking," demanding my full attention, daily.

I examine my feet every morning (as every diabetic should), because, what with the diminished sensation from neuropathy, I might discover that I might have stepped in a bear-trap overnight. I would only know that by counting my little piggies, that and noticing a trail of blood.

I then slather my feet with moisturizing cream to prevent dry-cracked skin that can lead to dangerous infections. Picking the right kind of moisturizing cream from the shelves of the drug store can be a anxiety-ridden chore in itself, aggravating concerns over my diminished ability to handle stress, which is another story.

Socks. Who knew all the things to look for in socks for the elderly: not too tight -- unless your poor veinous return creates leg ulcers, in which case you can't get them tight enough; seamless, to minimize blisters; anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, anti-everything.

The properly socked foot should then be ensconced in high-priced orthopedically correct shoes -- big banana boat shoes that just scream, "OK, I'm old"; preferably shoes with velcro straps for those of us with gnarled, arthritically frozen fingers that make tying laces a labor akin to Hercules' task of slaying the Hydra.

Driving this whole foot thing are those toes, suddenly migrating hither and yon, up and down, sideways, curling under here twisting up there, exhibiting no discernible logical pattern. My doc said I'd hit the trifecta of toe troubles: hammer toes, claw toes, and mallet toes. I finally won.

I say all the toes are migrating madly about, but I meant all but the big toes. My big toes are frozen solid -- hallux rigidus -- with big boney structures at the bottom of each toe, growing upward, stretching and pushing against the skin, like they might burst through at any moment, like that monster in "The Alien" bursts through someone's stomach. Doc said we might someday have to do surgery, perhaps titanium toe joints.

Weary of the pain, I went for a second opinion. The new podiatrist said "Well, we could have implanted new inserts, but now it's too late. All the cartilage is gone. All we can do now is break the bone and re-fuse the joint at an angle more consistent with a normal gait."

Nope, I decided. I'll just walk around with rocker-soled, orthopedic, big toe box, gunboat shoes like the ones Bozo the clown wore in the circus, you know, the ones where he could bend forward, touching his nose to the ground, without falling over.

That leaves the all important toenails. As you age, your eyesight is not quite what it used to be, and your hands can shake like Aspen leaves in a gale force wind. Thus, you can no longer safely trim your own toenails without threat of injury (e.g., this little piggy went to heaven.)

So you wind up going to a podiatrist to trim your toenails -- if you can find one -- every 10 weeks or so, because that's the cycle Medicare will pay for.

It's not that easy to find a toenail trimming podiatrist. I once had to go to the big city podiatrist for a consultation. During the exam I asked "By the way, do you do toenail clippings?" She said "No," seeming to indicate she had more important things to do, suggesting that toenail trimming was beneath her. But, what can be beneath a podiatrist, I thought? The foot's as low as it goes.

Yes, I confess that I once took my lowly feet for granted, running and jumping around -- out of trees as a youngster, high off the gym floor in high school basketball -- totally unaware of the future joys of plantar fasciitis.

Today, washed in the blood and pain of experience, I fully love my feet, think of them daily, and suddenly appreciate the miracle of those tiny feet bones keeping me upright. For now, thank you God.

And I think: While your eyes might be the window to your soul, there's no doubt that your toes are the window to your soles.