The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Socks

She put them in the laundry in pairs, but when they came out of the dryer, they were singles. Where did the socks go?

The suspects:

• The husband. Did he leave his footwear on the floor, not using the hamper properly? Or at all? (Sadly, yes. The art of gathering dirty clothes is beyond his abilities.)

• The son. Did he take random socks out of the laundry, trying to drive his mother crazy? (Possibly. Playing mental games such as this sounds like something he’d do for a laugh.)

• The daughter. Did she wear mismatched socks as a fashion statement, making the sock count uneven from the very beginning of the laundering process? (Unfortunately, she did. Often.)

But after investigating, the truth was finally revealed to be none of them. The perp was caught red-handed with the evidence.

Or is that red-pawed?

Max is the “middle child” of our dog children. He is the happiest pup I’ve ever seen, quick to smile at you or give you a kiss.

That wasn’t always the case.

We rescued him from an abusive situation. Though we never got the details of what happened to him, he came to us full of fear, particularly of bearded men wearing baseball caps. It took months to convince him we weren’t going to betray him. The poor little guy startled at the slightest disturbance. I’ve seen him freak out at the sight of paper lunch sacks, dead leaves blowing in the wind, and hose water splashing on a beach ball. Don’t even get me started about doorbells and ringing phones.

Unconditional love and constant affection seem to have cured him of his fears. Like I said, he’s now a perpetually pleasant dog.

I’d like to say the sock story is fictitious, but I have no other explanation for where the darn things go. I think they go into the hamper in pairs, but by the time they come out of my dryer, they’re singles. Unless there’s some kind of quantum vortex in the laundry room, I can only assume the socks aren’t making it into the hamper in pairs at all. My guess is they're discarded on bedroom floors, but overnight, before they’re gathered and deposited into the dirty clothes bin, the sock bandit absconds with his treasures. Come morning, the bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived humans are none the wiser as they blindly scoop whatever’s lying there to drop into the laundry.

It’s not hard for him to get away with larceny when his victims are asleep.

Little Maximus has a few games he adores, and one of them is Tug. Anything will do… rope, shoes (unfortunately), toys. But his favorite tug implement is a sock. Any sock will do, but blue ones seem to be his favorites.

Because I optimistically save lone socks (falsely assuming eventually their mates will reappear), I’ve caught him in a heap of them, a look of rapture on his face as he wriggles deeper into the pile. Watching him revel in his cotton paradise reminds me of cartoons of misers rolling in mounds of money.

It’s impossible to pick one favorite memory because he makes every day special. Having him in our lives means daily love, humor, and joy.

If you start to pack a suitcase, Maximillian waits near the door, tongue lolling. He loves to go on car rides and is as happy to go on vacation as people are. If you get out the brush, he practically purrs as you groom him. His eyes close and he leans into the strokes. If you go swimming, he’ll leap in after you. He’s delighted to doggie paddle the length of the pool and back, only stopping to circle you a few times. If you throw a ball, he chases it with his older brother and baby brother, even though he’s never fast enough to get to it first. He’s just happy to run with the big dogs.

But if you decide to play Tug, he doesn’t let his brothers force him out of the way. He stands his ground, chomps on the tug toy (yes, it’s often a sock), then pulls for all he’s worth.

I cherish every second with this little guy. When we went to choose our next furry family member, we had every intention of getting the litter mate of our first dog. But this sweet pup charmed us all. We couldn’t leave him behind. From the second I saw him, I knew he was meant for us. And we never looked back.

Little Maxie is the first to say good morning, the first to show his appreciation for meals and treats, and the first to cuddle with you at night. All our dogs are sweethearts, but as my grandmother says, “There’s just something about that little white one.”

She’s right. Then again, Max has never stolen her socks…