Socks

The divorce rate among socks in my house has consistently been around 25 percent.  No matter how hard I try, some socks just can't stay together. I know I'm not alone in this endeavor. I know many choose to immediately toss the sock widows in the trash, with no chance in finding its mate in the next load or two (or 32) of laundry. While I have many, much more significant and life-altering issues to focus on, I choose to dwell on this one as frequently as possible.  There's nothing more rewarding that reuniting socks with their mates when a load of laundry is done, and having no singles left behind.  I have, for years, kept what I call my "sock widow box" which I periodically pull out, dump on the bed, have a sock social and try to find mates for every one. It's a really good time until I have to put those who remain widows back in the box. It's just sad.  Especially for the really unique socks, like Cole's camo print socks or truck socks, or some of Katie's really wild prints and colorful ones. I mean, really. How in the world do those guys get separated!! Soon I think I'm going to just buy everyone the exact same size, color and style so no matter what, we'll always have perfectly matched pairs of socks every day.  There will still be a huge box of widows left, which will undoubtedly stress me out until every last one of them has found either its original mate, or moved on and hooked up with a new one.

A few months ago, we found what is (hopefully) the last addition to our family.



Her name is Hershey, and she's a chocolate lab.  Darn it she was so cute as a puppy. She had (well, still has actually) a beautiful shiny chocolate coat, green eyes that change with her mood, and just the tiniest spot of white fur in exactly the middle of her chest.  She was like a little magician with super powers, drawing every passer-by to her, winning over people of every age.  When she was really little, her entire coat was as soft as silk. As she has grown, some of her coat has become a little coarser, but her head and ears are still very silky.  Like most puppies, she had tons of "puppy skin," which fell around her when she laid down, and begged to be squeezed.  She immediately slept through the night (thank GAWD or I might have had to hurt someone [Dan]), and never barked. We even thought for a while she might be a mute.  WRONG!!!  Her bark is deep and throaty, and jars your entire skull.  If you are close enough, you'll have to plug your ears.  Fortunately, she doesn't use it unless she's desperate.  Translate: she wants to play and you're ignoring her.

I knew as a puppy she would like to chew on things. We bought her every conceivable kind of toy, all of which she has EATEN.  Well, except for one - a Kong that we can't find.  I suppose it's possible she did eat it, but 1) since we can't find proof and 2) since Kong advertises it is "un-edible" I'll give Hershey the benefit of the doubt that this is the one toy she has not digested. You may be wondering how I know she has actually eaten these toys and not just chewed them to pieces. I know this because I see parts of the toys later, like, in the poop.  Ugh. Red nylon, blue plastic, yellow felt, black rubber, pink yarn, whatever. It all comes out later.

With socks, however, they will come back in one of two ways.  We've learned, unfortunately through multiple experiences, that if she eats just one, it comes out the back end. If she eats more than one (at a time), she pukes 'em up.  In perfectly-formed bullet shapes.  Let that image sink in now...

If you don't get it fast enough, she - get ready - EATS. THEM. AGAIN. Got that image now too? Good. Misery loves company.

What's more, she knows we particularly hate it when she gets socks because she makes sure to make eye contact when she has a sock (or - gasp! - two socks) in her chomper.  Tail wagging furiously, she lowers her head, front legs splayed out, and she's ready to bolt.  Not surprisingly, Hershey can run significantly faster than any one in this family.  Her favorite place from which to taunt someone when she has a sock-in-custody is under the foosball table in the boys' room. It's the perfect amount of space that provides just enough cover that if you try to navigate around the bars and reach under to grab her, she darts out and around before you heave your big butt off the floor.  By this time, whoever is chasing her is calling for back up.

If you are called for back up, your job is to block entry into one of the other rooms and the stairs. It's not exactly an easy job, since Hershey has twice as many legs, and 200 times the energy.  When she's really serious about that particular sock, she'll just sit down under the foosball, look at you, and swallow.  Grrr....

Once I caught her mid-swallow, which I wish I hadn't.  The sock I pulled out looked like Dr. Venkman from Ghostbusters after a run-in with Slimer.












Now the divorce rate among socks in my house is, oh, I'd say closing in on 50 percent.  The old shoe box that served as my sock widow box for years has been replaced with a another bigger box. Next is one of those large plastic storage tubs they sell in WalMart and Target in clear and seasonal colors.

This all leads to me my newest, most concerning problem to date: how to possibly find mates for those socks Hershey has permanently widowed!!