The Great Sock Heist of Maple Street

Biscuit has never once chewed a sock. That is what makes it so strange. He steals them, carries them around the house like trophies, and then, when he thinks nobody is looking, he buries them in the flower bed by the mailbox.

We only found out last spring. My husband was planting tomatoes and his spade hit something soft. Then something else. Then a third thing. By the end of the afternoon we had dug up fourteen socks, still perfectly paired, in a neat row like a tiny cemetery.

Biscuit watched from the porch with the calm face of a dog who knows nothing. He has since been caught on the doorbell camera, at 6:40 a.m., trotting across the lawn with a striped sock held high like a flag. He stopped, glanced at the camera, and continued.

We have tried hiding the laundry basket. He has learned to open the bathroom door. We have tried trading him a treat for each sock. Now he brings us socks on purpose, to get the treat, which means he is training us.

If you have a sock thief of your own, you are not alone. We learned that it is often about attention and the smell of the people he loves, and that a few simple swaps make a difference. He is nine now and still at it, and we would not change a thing.