The Great Sock Heist of 2024

Let me tell you about the most dangerous creature known to mankind. It is not the lion, nor the shark, nor even the tax auditor. No, the most terrifying beast is a Golden Retriever with separation anxiety.

My dear friend, Mildred, owns such a beast. His name is Sir Barksalot III (he insists on the Roman numeral). He is a fluffy, golden menace who believes that fabric softener is a spice and that shoes are merely chewable appetizers.

Last Tuesday, Mildred made a fatal error. She decided to wash her laundry, leaving the basket unattended for exactly four minutes to answer a phone call from her mother (a woman who can talk for three hours about the price of tea cozies).

When she returned, the laundry room looked like a cotton factory had exploded. There were socks in the sink, socks in the toilet, and one particularly brave sock dangling from the ceiling fan like a tiny, white flag of surrender.

But the pièce de résistance was Sir Barksalot himself. He sat proudly in the center of the chaos, wearing a pair of Mildred’s favorite silk stockings on his head like a sacred headdress. He had constructed what appeared to be a nest—a fortress of fleece—and was guarding it with the intensity of a dragon protecting its gold.

Mildred, ever the practical woman, simply sighed and asked, “Where are my running shorts?”

Sir Barksalot wagged his tail, trotted over to the refrigerator, and nudged it open with his nose. Inside, neatly folded and smelling faintly of brie, were her shorts.

He had stolen them. He had refrigerated them.

Mildred now keeps her laundry in a vault. Sir Barksalot now wears a tiny, judge-like wig made of dryer lint to remind him of his crimes.

And I? I keep my pages far, far away from the jaws of that fluffy felon. Especially if they’re embroidered. Especially if they’re monogrammed. Especially if they’ve ever been near lavender-scented detergent.