SOCK

My wife Jill and I were folding laundry Sunday afternoon, after having finally come up with a system to keep socks together. She found these great huge plastic diaper pins at Michael's in the bargain bin, so we'd spent a smelly while pinning dirty socks together before throwing them into the washer. Brilliant! I thought, as I sorted through the pinned pairs to roll them and put them away. And then... shit. Where's the other Nike sweat sock? Oh, yeah. The fabric was too thick for the novelty pin to penetrate so I just tossed that pair in willy-nilly and crossed my toes (they are socks after all.)

​So now I have only one terrifically comfortable, absorbent, and fucking expensive sock with which to take my daily run. Jill put on a pot of coffee and we began the hunt. Behind things. Under things. Between cushions. It's not stuck in the dryer, not behind the washing machine, not under the bed. Damn. Okay, I can just wear another pair. Jill collapses on the couch with the latest Stephen King and a steaming mug and wishes me a good run. She knows it's my favorite part of the day - I get to catch up on my thinking, exercise, listen to my favorite playlists, and spend some quality time with Barbara, my big goofy boxer puppy.

​She's growing way too fast. She's almost a year old already! I can't believe it. Jill surprised me with her on my last birthday. I'd been feeling rather old, about to turn 40 and all, so Jill figured there's nothing like getting a puppy for your birthday to make you feel like a kid again. Well, it worked.

​Anyway, Barbara is really cute and silly, with floppy ears and a great tail. I couldn't bear the thought of having anything on her docked - plus I always thought the pointy ear/stubby tail thing makes a dog look scary. Barbara loves everyone and doesn't want anybody to be scared of her. We always make so many pals up in the canyon - we run and hike for hours. But today I only have my ankle socks and the poison oak is pretty bad this time of year. We'll do something we never do. We'll stay in the neighborhood today. It will be nice to meet some of the neighbors anyway.​

​Ok, I grab her purple leash, a baggy or two, and a few greenies and we are off like a dirty shirt. Come on girl! Barbara comes bounding down the stairs behind me. This is her favorite thing as well. Maybe I'll skip the playlists today. Just have a good talk with Barbara as we keep a steady pace. We take our laps around the block, we run and run for about an hour and she is so happy. There's nothing in this world like a happy puppy. But she's beginning to whine so I know it's time to do some business.

We slow to a trot and then to a walk and I grab hold of the nearest street-sign post to stretch and catch my breath. Barbara sniffs at the grass, at a few car tires, getting the local gossip in the various scents, and then she decides to add a little news of her own. She squats daintily over a patch of crab grass and waters it. Good girl, Barbara, I say, and toss her a greenie.

Just then, a young man approaches with an ancient Springer spaniel and a perky little Papillion. The dogs sniff each other curiously and the young man and I converse about dog names (the Springer's name is Jerry - ah! A kindred spirit!), ages, breeds, etc. It's nice to chat outside on this gorgeous Sunday afternoon and we linger. Then a woman comes along with a miniature dachshund and joins the party.

It is at this minute I notice Barbara has some other business to attend to. She curls her back downward, and looks at me, embarrassed. Eyes big. Looks back at her hind end. Nothing. Tries again. Nothing. The other dog owners look at her, and then regard me quizzically. The other dogs sniff their support. I don't know what's wrong, I say. She gets steamed veggies with her food daily. There shouldn't be a problem. Poor thing is still straining, and whining. I try massaging her belly a little. The other owners have feigned pity all over their faces. They glance at each other and roll their eyes. Finally, with great effort on Barbara's part, there is issue. Minute, but there. I feel like I'm helping her give birth. Especially when something almost completely unrecognizable begins to appear. Poor thing. She pushes and pushes. Her eyebrows knit with the effort. I break into Lamaze breathing, for the benefit of the bewildered and amused neighbors. Figures this happens the first time we all meet. I finally decide my unfortunate pooch needs some help. I fish a baggie from my pocket, cover my hand with it as if it were a glove, grab on and pull. Barbara nips at my wrist. I guess the tug was a bit too vigorous. I ease up, blushing a bright crimson under the neighbors' scrutiny. They do their best to suppress laughter, but it's apparent they will soon lose control. They are morbidly riveted, so no matter how I beg with my eyes for them to move on, it just won't happen. Their dogs whine quietly in sympathy for Barbara.

I resume my duty trying to deliver the doody. I pull ever so gently, watching my good girl do her doggy best to deal with her mortification. I pull a little more, and look up as the dachshund's owner finally loses it, and asks through her guffaws, Hey, since when did Nike start branding dog poop?