The dog dropped a neon-green sock at my feet, tail wagging like it had just discovered the secret to eternal sunshine. I knelt, plucked the sock from the floor, and said, “Not again.” The dog tilted its head, ears perked like antennae, and trotted to the hallway. I followed, trailing a trail of socks—striped, polka-dotted, one with a hole in the toe—each one more vibrant than the last. By the time I reached the living room, the coffee table was a sock volcano, erupting with synthetic fibers. The dog sat proudly amid the chaos, a matching pair of socks dangling from its mouth like trophies. I stared at the mess, then at the dog, which now barked once—short, sharp, and accusatory. I tossed a sock into the air. It soared, landed in the trash, and the dog lunged, snatching it mid-fall. It returned, dropping the sock at my feet with a thud. I sighed. The dog wagged its tail, then pawed at the trash can. I caved. We spent the next hour playing fetch with socks, until the dog finally curled into a twitching heap on the rug, its chest rising and falling like a deflated balloon. The next morning, I found a single sock tucked under my pillow—stitched with tiny paw prints and a note that read, “Next time: denim.”
