The Sock Rebellion

I was 14 years old and living in suburbia with my parents, two younger sisters, one younger brother and two cats. I had returned home from school one day, kicked off my shoes by the top of the stairs and hung up my backpack in the hallway closet. After closing the door, I noticed an anomaly lying on the beige carpet in our tidy home, a single white sock lying upon the floor, some distance from any hamper. I walked over and picked up the sock, examining it for anything unusual before shrugging and tossing it into the closest laundry basket. I couldn’t have known at the time, but this unexceptional event was my introduction to the Sock Rebellion, and the moment I became a soldier in the lifelong conflict.

Over the next few weeks, an individual strolling through the hallway might find a sock abandoned within sight of the living room or kitchen. The mystery of how the socks got to those locations was curious, but as there were also several mischievous youth living at home, the abandoned socks could easily be written off as a prank.

However that all changed the night that Snowflake, a middle aged, white shorthair cat revealed her part in the Sock Rebellion. It was never known if she was a sympathizer, formed an alliance, or was simply a brainwashed minion, but the socks sneaky plan had finally been revealed.

I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework when I heard coming from the back of the house, a terrible yowling sound. Fear filled me as I imagined one of my cats in pain, whether from becoming trapped somewhere or even worse, injured or sick with illness. I jumped up from the table and followed the horrendous noise to where I anticipated I would find a cat in great distress, writhing on the floor. Instead I found Snowflake with a sock nearly as long as her, one end clasped in her mouth while the remainder of the sock dragged along the floor underneath her stomach with her four legs straddling it, slowly creeping down the hallway. The most remarkable thing was her ability to meow at such incredible volume with the part of the sock blocking her half-closed mouth. After I checked her for injury, she dropped the sock, accepted head scratches and then walked away as if nothing significant had happened.

It didn’t take the family long to accept the normalcy of finding stockings in the hallway. Child socks, adult socks, colored socks, white socks, black socks; they all took a chance on a flight to freedom. But unfortunately for the socks, their feline vehicle of escape proved less than reliable. They never made it more than a few dozen feet from their plastic prisons and it was rare for more than one sock to escape at a time. Most puzzling were the times when underwear and one notable time, a bra, were found in the hallway. It was never known if these articles of clothing sought liberation like the socks or if they were simply taking the cat out for a ride.

Snowflake spent years aiding the socks in their escape attempts but unfortunately for the socks, she was never able to complete the task quietly. It may be due to her hunter instinct, for she was a bird cat in her youth and brought several kills to our back door to show off her prowess. I suspect the socks must have ignited in her a forgotten feeling of accomplishment that led her to proclaim very loudly her competency. Snowflake was as good as a siren declaring their attempts at escape. The socks from my parents house never did evade recapture; I wouldn’t see that feat completed until many years later when the Sock Rebellion conscripted my dog.

When I was newly married, my husband wished to adopt a dog and ended up bringing home a happy, loveable, although-not-too-bright, black Labrador puppy. He grew into a beautiful 100-lb dog who loved to race across the backyard, following the same trails repeatedly from one fence to another until permanent dirt trails interrupted the grass and lined the ground. Aku the Lab loved his family, loved the smell of our clothes, and most especially loved the ripe socks we pulled from our feet at the end of the day. It must have been around that time that the socks decided to use him to escape our home. No longer would they tolerate their life of being stretched onto feet, stuffed into shoes while accumulating sweat and dirt, and finding themselves ungratefully discarded at the end of the day.

The socks found that they could hide within Aku’s mouth and then encourage him to the back door where he would whine to go outside to the backyard. Once carried down the deck to the soft grass and fresh air, I doubt it took long for Aku to drop the sock. He needed his mouth unencumbered so that he could bark at something nearby, real or imaginary. Once free, I cannot say where the socks went, nor how they escaped for I have never been able to discover their secret plans. I only know that they disappeared.

Some of the less successful socks were able to be retrieved from the backyard and brought back into the house for washing. Some were stopped at the door, for they foolishly failed to climb entirely into the dog’s mouth. They comically dangled from Aku’s jaws, and we would insist he “drop it” before being allowed to go outside. Perhaps surprisingly the most clever of the socks were the baby socks which fit easily within Aku’s mouth and had a higher success rate of finding their way to the backyard. I remember lamenting how often it was the necessary to purchase yet more baby socks as the previous ones had gone missing. Unfortunate of course were the few socks that left our home only to find themselves at the mercy of their savior, and were chewed up and swallowed, based on evidence scooped up from the backyard. They paid a high price for the sake of the rebellion and I imagine they are remembered as heroes to this day.

I’ll never know how many socks Aku helped to escape our home, although I expect it was in the dozens, based on the number of matchless socks I came across over the years while putting laundry away. After he left us at the age of twelve to cross the Rainbow Bridge, the socks turned to my young children for help in their cause. And while they have achieved some measure of success, finding freedom on the deck or around the trampoline, or by the dirt piles where my boys love to dig, they have never known the triumphs of the glory years with Aku.

I hope that one day the socks will accept their captivity and stop trying to escape. Perhaps when I am an empty nester and the socks will have no one to whisper to, to aid them in their escape attempts. But I wonder if after a lifetime of their quiet urging, will I still have the desire to resist their pleas?