The Ordeal of Socks

November 28th, 2017

Here Comes My Treat

There was a time when I could put on a pair of socks in the morning and by evening, they were relatively clean.  Living with a Newfoundland dog has meant getting use to wearing wet socks or changing into another pair.  I enjoy dry, clean ones for about 20 minutes at the start of my day.  Once I bring Bailey in from her first business stroll of the day, the condition of my socks drastically changes.  I spend a few minutes training Bailey once the snow is removed from her paws at the front door.  She looks forward to this time with much anticipation.  Her successful response to a series of commands means enjoying savoury treats.  On this particular day, the treat was dried salmon chunks.  I waited in the kitchen for Bailey to perform the last two commands – come and sit.  She came faster than usual, drawn by the fish scent.  Bailey sat beside me.  CloserI signalled her to move in closer to my leg.  As she did, her eyes locked with mine.  Bailey lifted her front right paw and leaned in closer to the treat coming towards her wide gapping mouth.  Unfortunately for me, she shifted her weight onto the paw as it connected with my badly sprained toe that had recently started to heal from swelling and bruising.  I gave Bailey her treat and pushed her over.  But, it was not far enough.

Drool FlowsA long rope of drool dripped down to land on the top of my sock that contained the aching toe.  I could see more of it coming.  The closest drool rag was hanging on the fridge door, a few steps away.  I limped quickly over to the door.  However, when I went to grab it, I failed to notice a pool of drool dropped by our girl on her way into the kitchen.  But, I did feel my sock come in contact with the gooey substance.  I lost my footing and began to descend into the splits.  I never could do the splits as a teenager.  It was certainly not going to happen in my middle age years.  At the last minute, I rolled to one side – helped by Bailey.  Seeing that no more treats were coming, Bailey had decided to retreat to the living room for her early morning siesta.  Our kitchen has only one exit.  She squeezed herself between the fridge and me.  The fridge obviously wouldn’t budge.  I had to make room for her to get by.  While the drool rag hung still on the fridge door, she gave a slobbery wet nuzzle on my cheek as she passed.  I was left wedged between the fridge door and the garbage can.  I slowly picked myself up.  I looked at the condition of my left sock.  It was wet and slimy on the top and bottom. I  resorted to using the drool rag not on the Newf but, on myself.  It wasn’t worth putting on a new pair.  After all, my right sock was still looking good.  I then noticed Bailey’s kennel water dish lying on the counter and decided to take it out to the kennel.  Halfway across the entry room tile, I hit another goo patch with the right sock.  I did an unexpected lunge as my right sock slide forward.  I could see it was time to throw in the socks and start fresh with another pair.