The Joy of Socks

“What have you got there, Willie?”

Julie and I are in the kitchen at first light; I’m setting the breakfast table and Julie is fixing a cup of coffee when I notice Willie, on the rug of the still-darkened living room, pulling and tugging on something between his paws — something that doesn’t look like any of the toys I brought with him.

“It’s a sock,” Julie says. “I think it’s one of Joanna’s.”

Indeed – it’s one of the one-of-a-kind colorful striped wool socks Joanna’s friend knitted for her – socks that her friend darns and repairs each year as necessary.  Joanna loves her friend and she loves that sock, which Willie is treating like a chew toy.  After a brief chase, I take the sock from Willie’s mouth and place it on a table in the living room beside Joanna’s computer.

“Where is Joanna?” I ask Julie, walking back into the kitchen.

“She’s still reading in bed.”

It’s raining this morning, and I’m late taking Willie on his pre-breakfast walk.  As I fix my tea I look out the kitchen window as sheets of water cascade from the roof.

“Uh-oh; Willie’s got another sock,” Julie says. “I think that one is Steve’s.”

Steve is in the shower; Willie clearly went into Steve’s bedroom and helped himself to the discard laundry pile.  I remove the sock from Willie’s mouth and cast about for a place to set it down. With Willie following close at heel, I put the sock on the seat of Steve’s chair, but after Willie snatches it back I retrieve it a second time and place it up and out of his reach – on the dining table, beside Steve’s plate.

I return my attention to the breakfast preparation but Willie is back a moment later, tail whipping, with Steve’s other sock in his mouth.  I take this one away, too, and add it, neatly, to Steve’s odd place setting, then walk toward the stove to silence the whistling kettle.  As I empty the dish drainer and put away last night’s pots and kitchen tools I hear Tom behind me greet Julie with a “Good morning” followed by, “Who’s underwear is that?”

I turn to see Julie glance up from her reading on the sofa; she looks over the top of her glasses at Willie, now tossing and shaking a pair of heather gray jockey shorts as if it’s something he’s trying to kill.  “Those are Steve’s,” Julie says, her tone suggesting this is all, just, well, normal.  I need to stop what I’m doing and take Willie for a walk.

“Is Steve still in the shower?”  I ask as I retrieve the jockey shorts from Willie.  He follows me down the hall, tail wagging as I walk toward Steve’s bedroom carrying yesterday’s socks and underwear.  Still wrapped in a towel, Steve scratches Willie’s head.  “It’s going to seem awfully boring when Willie goes home,” he says, “with only yours and Richard’s socks to smell.”

With Willie “saddled up” in his harness and leash, Julie and I put on our rain jackets and step out into the torrent.  Though we walk for less than fifteen minutes, the clothing below the level of our jackets – our pants, shoes, and socks – is thoroughly soaked through by the time we return to the cottage.  Willie is completely soaked as well – and as Julie towels him off I catch the aroma of white vinegar; after his sink bath last weekend, on the advice of some website or another, I’d used white vinegar as a final rinse and it’s been reconstituted by the rain.  Willie smells like a pickle.

I exchange my wet clothes for dry and start a load of laundry.  While fresh-baked scones cool on the counter, Julie makes a fruit salad and Steve scrambles a dozen eggs and fries a pound of bacon.  The cottage fills with delicious aromas and lively conversation and finally, before settling in for a day of writing, the five of us sit down together to breakfast.  After a moment, Tom catches Willie in his sightline, sets down his cup and says, “Whose sock it that?”