Atticus and the Sock

My dog’s name is Atticus, as in Finch. He’s looking up at me with a dirty wool sock in his mouth. It’s so boring when people write about their pets, that’s what his eyes say. Actually, they say, it’s so boring when people write and don’t play with me.

“I’m not going to play tug of war with my own sock.”

He looks up at me.

“Go get a toy and I’ll play.” He spits thte sock out into my lap and wanders off in search of his hedge hog.

We spend a lot of time together, me and the dog.

I think he has a sock castle somewhere. There’s a space between the washing machine and the futon that I can’t really get to. I bet that’s where it is.

I wonder what the laws are in Atticus’ sock kingdom? (I’m lame because I imagine a magical sock kingdom for my dog. He takes the socks back there to chew because it makes his gums feel good. End of story.) He probably poops on them too, when we’re not home, which makes me feel like a bad housekeeper. Wow, I just realized how much I hate the word ‘housekeeper’. Okay, so it makes me feel like a dirty slob and a failure because my dog most likely shits in the house in places that I can’t find.

I’m totally grossed out by this, but not grossed out enough to push the washing machine out to check for poop. I mean, I’d smell it right?

“Hey Atticus.” He walks over and looks up at me with those big beagle eyes. “Do you shit behind the washing machine?”

He cocks his head to the left and blinks.

“Well, do you?”

He cocks his head to the right and blinks again.

“No, I just chew socks back there. It’s warm and it smells nice.”

I look at thim like has three heads. He looks at me like I have seven and goes on his merry way with my sock in his mouth.


One thought on “Atticus and the Sock

  1. I’ve recently been of the ..conviction that wee Guinness is, well, actually retarded. The tragedy is that this notion consumes the majority of my thoughts at home. Maybe it’s contagious.

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