The dryer hummed like a sleepy bee as I tossed in a load of socks, only to find my golden retriever, Biscuit, already inside, tail wagging so hard it looked like a windshield wiper on steroids. He’d somehow unzipped the laundry basket, which was basically a crime scene now—socks strewn like confetti, underwear draped over the vacuum cleaner like a bizarre art exhibit. ‘Biscuit,’ I said, crouching to rescue a pair of yoga pants, ‘you’re not a raccoon.’ He blinked, then trotted off, proudly holding a single sock in his mouth, as if he’d just won the World Cup. I followed him to the couch, where he dropped the sock onto my lap like a trophy. The scent of lavender detergent hung in the air, mingling with his guilty puppy breath. I sighed, but then he leaned into me, head on my knee, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe laundry day was just another day in the life of a dog who thought the world was one giant, chewable joke.
