The kitchen smelled like burnt bacon and regret. I’d left my pancake stack unattended for 37 seconds—37 seconds!—and now there it was: a lone flapjack, half-eaten, surrounded by paw prints that looked suspiciously like a toddler’s scribbles.
Biscuit, my pug, sat cross-legged on the counter, tail wagging like a metronome set to ‘I’m innocent.’ I pointed at the crime scene. ‘You did this.’
He tilted his head, ears flopping like two sad pancakes. Then he sneezed, which made him look even more guilty. I reached for the leash. ‘You’re going to the dog park. Alone.’
He barked once, a sharp ‘No!’ that echoed through the house. Then he trotted to the trash can, nudged it open with his nose, and dropped a sock inside. My sock. The one with the hole in it.
I stared. He stared back, eyes wide, like a toddler who just realized crayons are for walls. ‘You’re punishing me for *this*?’ I said. ‘You’re a menace!’
He barked again, this time a cheerful ‘Yes!’ as he trotted off, leaving a trail of pancake crumbs and sock-shaped guilt. The next day, I found him buried under the couch, surrounded by 12 of my socks. The one with the hole was neatly folded on top. A trophy. A message. A sockpocalypse.
I’ve never trusted laundry again.
