My name is Ted and I’m a sockaholic
I last had a sock 2 hours 38 minutes ago.
I would have got away with it, if Himself hadn’t caught me in the act of demolishing this little item. He’d hidden it in his Wellington boot for a month, which added considerably to its piquancy. Pretty hard core, I can tell you: the sock equivalent of about a quart of navy strength rum.
Personally, I don’t see the problem with my little ‘habit’. Himself disagrees; he says it’s the sockaholic’s family and loved ones who suffer most. It’s true that his sock hoard has taken quite a battering over the years. I’ve done my best to refrain, and it’s quite a while since I last fell off the wagon. Himself says it’s not a disaster, provided I climb back on pretty damn quick and leave his bloody socks alone (his words, not mine).
A while ago he insisted that I attend weekly meetings of Sock Anon in the Village Hall. You’d be surprised what a high proportion of local dogs turn up. There are Poodles addicted to ladies’ tights, Chihuahuas who can hardly stand up after nibbling a pair of knitted booties, and Great Danes who would demolish a laundry basket full of rugby socks, given half a chance. The best thing is that we all understand the immense attraction of malodorous hosiery and none of us would ever judge another hound for succumbing to temptation. Which is more than can be said for our humans!
It is important to remember that there are some poor mutts even worse off than we are. Rumour has it that there are canines who are addicted to chewing old pairs of pants – the crack cocaine of underwear. Poor bastards, they are so far gone that there’s little hope for them. For the record, I’d like to make it clear that I only do socks.
I did sniff a pair of Y-Fronts once, but I didn’t inhale.