Who had taken the sock?

My favorite pair, sky blue with white, fluffy clouds. They were even the fuzzy kind, the kind that hug your toes in the blistering cold of winter. I missed my sock. But WHO had taken it?

All five of them. I lined up all five of them.

First, there was Sir Fluffington. The Lagotto Romagnolo looks like a teddy bear, but don’t let him fool you! He is a sock stealer if I ever saw one! He stole my socks all the time, so what could keep me from thinking this was any different?! Second, there was Bugsy. The goldendoodle sat on its bum, her tongue hanging out of her mouth in a lopsided and cavalier way. Also a teddy bear in looks, but her eyes...they sparkled in guilt. She was another sock stealer--but most of the time, she tore them to pieces before she could actually DO any stealing. Zelda, my collie and my favorite dog, I won’t lie, stood beside Bugsy. Her tail wagged to and fro in an excited fashion, and she was the type of dog that when her tail wagged, her whole little puppy booty moved. Endearing, to say the least….BUT WAS SHE MY THIEF? Shirley, our oldest dog, a beagle, lay in a pudgy pile last in the line. She looked at me with uncaring eyes.

“Now. Which one of you--” I paced in front of them. “DID IT? MY FAVORITE SOCK.” I held up the other one, the UNSTOLEN ONE. “WHO?” I brandished it in Sir Fluffington’s face. “YOU?” and I threw it on Bugsy’s back. Zelda nudged it with her nose, and it slid off the fat dog’s back.

ONE OF THOSE DOGS HAD STOLEN IT. And I…….had a plan.

***

The tin of treats made the most delightful of noises, at least to my dogs. Had all ‘em on their feet (their hind two!) begging and howling, but of course I didn’t relent! “SIR FLUFFINGTON!” I called out, and the other dogs knew to sit still as the only male dog timidly stepped forward.

“Where were you on the night of last night? HMMM?”

All of the dogs stared at me as if I spoke a different a language--which, I did, in their defense, so I called on my old pal, Mark Sparks. He was a dog whisperer, or so he claimed. He wasn’t an animagus or anything, but he always said he was “one with the dog.” So, Mark Sparks headed over.

Once Mark Sparks was DONE heading over and had arrived, in typical flamboyant Mark Sparks fashion (glitter was involved whenever the man apparated ANYWHERE), I showed him the dogs, who were all waiting in a line as I had left them.

“Mark, do your thing,” I whispered.

Mark Sparks began to dance. Tap dancing, to be exact. He had brought tap shoes, and the tapping created a lovely echo in my dining room. It almost made me want to break out my banjo and create some music, but now was not the time. I needed to learn my poor sock’s fate!

The tap dancing had lulled the dogs into a false sense of security, I think, for all four of them were were laying down with their little heads on the ground in between their precious little GUILTY paws.

“Now that I have lulled you all into COMPLETE FOCUS…” Mark Sparks began, “I will interview each of you INDIVIDUALLY,” he said.

“Who first, then, Mark?” I asked.

“Let’s begin with…..ZELDA!” The collie lifted her head curiously at her name. “Paul, before we begin, I need her favorite toy. We’ll be waiting in the kitchen,” and Mark snapped at Zelda to follow him.

Zelda’s favorite toy was a bone given to her by James Draper’s dog, Merlin. Her one true love...she snuggles the bone to sleep sometimes. I set it down in front of her, but Mark quickly snatched it up and promptly placed it in his own teeth.

“...What are you doing, old friend?”

“I fide dat id i’ eazier to ged dog to calk wheb I gob hid TOY!” Mark said with the bone in his mouth.

Interesting, indeed.

“Well...do your thing, Mark,” I sighed and had a seat at the table.

Mark got on all fours and pranced in a circle around Zelda, who looked confused, but her tail began to wag. Mark dropped the bone from his mouth, and it tumbled onto the ground. He then sat in front of the dog, put his hands on her ears, and leaned in towards her face with his ear pressed against her nose. Zelda began to lick his ears. It seemed Mark never needed another cotton bud again!

“Zelda. ZELDA, my lady….did you steal Paul’s sock? Did you steal your father’s sock? The fluffy blue ones? With the clouds?”

Zelda licked his ear twice.

“AH! I see, I see. You don’t know who took them, either?”

Zelda’s tongue accidentally moved forward on Mark’s face, and his mouth got a good licking too.

“AHHHHHH you don’t--well--I guess we move on, then, shall we?” And he stood up.

My facial expression resembled one of someone who had just witnessed an elderly aunt giving her round of Christmas kisses to the younger family members. And trust me, I know, because I have an Aunt Crisenda who wears the deepest shade of red lip stain you could POSSIBLY imagine, and when she gets going--

Ahem.

We have a mystery to solve, I do apologize.

Mark’s next interrogation was with Bugsy. The goldendoodle didn’t want to sit for him, not even for her favorite toy (which was a stuffed tiger with its ears and one eye missing). Mark had put that in his mouth, too, and I wondered I’d be liable for any diseases my friend might catch. I didn’t think my dog insurance would cover that.

“Ah, she isn’t cooperating! We need another method...perhaps…” And Mark Sparks collapsed onto the floor, sprawling out like a starfish.

Bugsy bounced forward, her tail wagging back and forth like a ping-pong ball as she approached the strange man on the floor. She had never been a licker, so she merely nudged her nose against his cheek.

“Bugsy…” Mark said in a croaky voice. “I need to know...did you...did you steal Paul’s fluffy blue cloud socks?”

Bugsy whined and lay down next to Mark.

“Oh?” Mark suddenly sat up. “You...you don’t know who DID it but you SAW IT? WHERE?” Mark asked, bouncing to his feet. Bugsy leapt up, too, and ran for the stairs. Mark hurried after her, and I tried my best to follow but the three (well, two, because Shirley hadn’t move from her spot on the floor) dogs pummeled forward when they saw the action, knocking me on my behind ONTO THE HARDWOOD FLOOR.

***

After many not needed details about my sore tailbone, and skipping some boring rising action in the plot of this case, we ended up in the dogs’ favorite hangout in our home, the hangout room. Full of plush bean bags and couches and a water couch (anyone who ever wants to stop by to visit is MORE than welcome, unless you are a current student of mine. Sorry, kiddos, you can come by when you’ve graduated!) donned the room as well as a very large TV, a muggle pool table, and a bar with uh, orange juice only, I assure you.

Bugsy had shoved herself under the water couch and was wiggling her behind.

“The sock! It was here at some point!” Mark exclaimed.

I, however, was less impressed. “The dogs like this room, Mark, of course they want to come--”

“No! It was RIGHT HERE-----” And Mark held up a wad of light blue fuzz. “SEE?”

I gasped.

Bugsy barked.

Zelda began to chew on the edge of the rug.

Sir Fluffington tried to sniff Mark’s butt.

It was a tense moment. It was our first clue!

“We must keep going! BUGSY, good girl!” Mark was all smiles. “Now...we’ll let them sniff it…” And while it was a sole piece of fuzz, and I very highly doubted the dogs would get any scent off the fuzz, I thought I might as well let Mark give it a shot! “Come here, Fluffington!” Mark held the fuzz aloft.

“No, Mark, Sir Fluff--” I tried to warn him! Sir Fluffington, I had feared, would EAT THE FUZZ. AND THAT IS WHAT HE DID.

Our only clue was gone.

We had no hope left.

***

Mark sighed as we all headed back downstairs. “I’m sorry, Paul. None of the others will talk to me...and Sir Fluffington feels very guilty for swallowing our only clue.”

“I’ll have to find another pair at some point.”

It was, truly, a sad day.

And once we got back downstairs where Shirley lay, I was surprised to see the three other dogs zoom off in the direction of the living room. Mark and I sat at the table for tea, and MIton joined us. We spoke of all the good times we could recall while I had been wearing those socks.

It was then that the three younger dogs suddenly approached my side, and Sir Fluffington dropped something on my lap.

“Why...it’s my slipper!” I exclaimed. “The one I lost about three years ago now? Remember, Milly?” I held up the puffy black slipper.

Milton burst into laughter. “Yeah, I remember those,” he smirked. “Looks like they feel bad about your sock, Paul. I bet it was ole’ Shirley who took it.”

I pat the slipper in my lap and smiled gently as I gave each of my little furballs a scratch behind the ears. “Well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

“You will. Three years from now, maybe,” Milton.

“Pretty sure Bugsy has to poop--” Mark said, and sure enough the goldendoodle ran to the door.

“Well, all in a dog-daddy day’s work, eh?” Milton said as he opened the door to let her out.

And to this day, we still haven’t a clue who took my sock, or where it could be.