The day my dog, Sir Barksalot, decided socks were currency, I learned two things: 1) never leave a pile of laundry unattended, and 2) dogs are just tiny, furry dictators in sweaters. It started innocently—my sock was dangling off the laundry basket like a tiny flag of surrender. Then he snorted, pounced, and vanished with it like a thief in the night. I found him two hours later, mid-sprint through the living room, sock lodged in his mouth like a trophy. ‘You’re a menace,’ I said, half-laughing, half-terrified. He responded by dropping the sock at my feet and staring up with those soulful eyes that say, ‘I’m not a menace; I’m a collector.’ The next day, I discovered three more socks hidden under the couch. This isn’t a pet crisis; it’s a sock apocalypse. I’ve since installed a lock on the laundry room. It’s not paranoia if they’re actually plotting against you.
