The day I discovered my dog, Sir Barksalot, had turned our living room into a sock circus, I knew adulting was a lie. There he was, mid-ambush, paws planted on my favorite navy-blue sock, tail wagging like a windshield wiper on high speed. I’d left my laptop open to a spreadsheet titled “Budget 2024″—a fragile illusion of control.
“Give that back,” I said, crouching to negotiate. The sock hung limply from his jaws, as if he’d forgotten it was there. He blinked, then trotted off, sock dragging like a defeated flag. I followed, dodging a trail of mismatched socks scattered like landmines. The couch? A sock fortress. The rug? A sock graveyard.
At the fridge, he dropped the sock like a bomb defuser. I stared. He stared back, ears perked, as if this were a game of chess and I’d just checkmated myself. My phone buzzed—a reminder: “Reminder: Call Mom.” I texted her instead: “Can’t talk. My dog is staging a coup.”
Later, I found the sock nestled in his bed, curled up like a tiny, fuzzy victory. I scooped it up, sopping wet from his drool. The dog watched, proud as a general. I sighed. Maybe adulting wasn’t a lie. Maybe it was just… a sock circus.
