The living room smelled like burnt coffee and regret. I knelt in the wreckage of my couch, a shredded pillow squishing under my knee, while Biscuit, my golden retriever, stared at me with eyes so innocent they could’ve been carved from glacier ice. The TV played a infomercial about vacuum cleaners, its voice droning about ‘revolutionary dirt-removal technology’ as I surveyed the damage. Three throw pillows, one lamp, and a stack of books that now resembled a collapsed Jenga tower. Biscuit woofed once, then dropped a sock at my feet—a neon pink one, matching the couch. I stared at it. The sock stared back. ‘You’re a monster,’ I said. Biscuit wagged his tail, oblivious. I reached for the phone, then paused. The sock had a hole in it, like something had gnawed through. I flipped it over. Inside, nestled in the fabric, was a smaller sock—tiny, fuzzy, and definitely not mine. Biscuit’s tail froze. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘You didn’t.’ He blinked. I held up the sock. ‘You’ve been hiding these?’ He lunged for it, but I tossed it into the trash. Biscuit howled. The sound echoed through the house, a mournful wail that made my neighbor’s cat yowl from the backyard. I slumped against the couch, now a lumpy, fur-covered relic. Biscuit padded over, head tilted, and dropped a second sock at my feet. This one had a hole too. I sighed. ‘You’re not getting a treat for this,’ I said. He licked my hand, still innocent. The TV droned on. ‘…and now, the revolutionary dirt-removal technology—’ I stood, grabbed the phone, and dialed. ‘Hi, is this the doggy day care? I need a favor.’
