My dog has a real problem. He likes to eat baby socks. And there’s nothing worse than going on poop patrol in the backyard and finding my kid’s socks.
After all, I paid perfectly good money for those darn socks and there’s no way he’s wearing them out as an 8-month-old non-crawler. I’m so incensed by the whole process that there is some whisper in my brain that tells me that I could possibly wash the sock and it would be fine. Sadly, I’ll woman-up and tell you that I unknowingly tried it once after the dog pooped in his crate; I can tell you with certainty that nothing is ever the same once eaten by a Doberman.
But it’s like a fetish for this dog. Case in point was last night. The nanny drops the baby off around 6ish. It’s time for some chow, so in the high chair the little man goes, looking so darn cute in his gray-and-red-stripe-knit romper and coordinating fleece booties. (By the way, I love, love, love these booties, which I picked up on sale for $2.99 at Old Navy.) Baby is happy and smiling as I prepare him a meal of warmed rice cereal, boob milk, and canned organic chicken and stars, courtesy of a wonderful mommy friend who graciously left this can of delectables at our house because her bambino wouldn’t eat them.
Out of nowhere, he starts screaming. My first thought is that his teeth must be bothering him. But I look over and he doesn’t have his index finger in his mouth, which is the usual sign. I see the dark shadow of a nearly 6-month-old Dobie skirt amongst the table legs, but I don’t really think much of it because when the dog has something he shouldn’t, he makes a big production so that I will fall for his ruses and chase him around the house.
For the record, I don’t; instead I head for the cookie jar and immediately the dog brings me the contraband, drops it at my feet, and waits with the softest of eyes for his treat. Now, the question I have is am I any less “trained” by the dog than the owner that chases him around? I think not.
That’s really neither here nor there. Baby must just be teething or possibly (gasp!) getting that horrible thing that’s going around where babies end up absolutely miserable with 103-degree temps.
But the crying stops rather quickly, so my worry-o-meter drops to zero and I continue fixing le dîner for my friend, Jess, who by the way is a rock star for helping me tame my unruly basement for an afternoon. I start setting the table and as I walk around it, I notice a tuft of something on the ground. I pick it up; as it was unidentifiable, I chucked it into the garbage. I turn another corner of the table and I see another something. This time instead of a tuft, I see more of a swatch. A nice, gray, fleece swatch.
Damnit it, dog!
Yes, my beast of a dog managed to steal a bootie that was still on his foot, maul it, and toss it by the wayside in what could be all of two minutes. And I’m talking that this thing is un-salvageable. Check it out:
I assure you that on the first day of February, when the city is preparing for a so-called “thunder-snow,” having to throw away the perfectly-good, matching pair to this beat-up bootie was no fun. It seems so cruel to allow my child to chill out in his stroller for hours on end in the chilly weather with nothing on his feet but thin, cheap socks from Target. The booties were a strategic protective layer no more.
The simple answer would be to go out and buy another pair. But I swear to you that shopping for winterware for infants past December is a challenge. My kid’s already outgrown his snowsuit; that happened in December and I still haven’t found one that will fit him. (I improvise by putting a regular pair of pants on him with another pair of currently-too-large sweatpants over the top.) At this stage, I think there will be no more booties for the boy this year. And how sad that is. Here is the epithet I would give them:
R.I.P. Gray Booties
You had sole.