My cat loves socks. He will steal them, and he will horde them, and one day when I’m cleaning out my closet I will find a small mountain of socks, compressed into a cat-sized sock next, covered in a dense layer of fur. He is like kitty-Smaug, except instead of gold he has socks. He is fur…he is scritches.
One time when my brother and I were younger, probably elementary and middle school, my mother had just picked us up from our dad’s because it was a Wednesday, and brought us back to her place. She worked late on Wednesdays because we weren’t home anyway, so the house was dark when we got home.
We walked in, and my mom stopped short. There was a perfect straight line of socks leading down the hallway, and one on each step going upstairs. Mom desperately tried to remember if the door had been locked when we came in, and shooed us to the neighbor’s house, while asking said neighbor (a tough Scottish man whose son was my age) to come check the house for murderous intruders with a sock fetish.
While they were searching the house, my brother and I were on the neighbor’s porch, confused, when we heard an uproarious laugh. We ran back to the house and up the stairs (bad idea if there was a laughing sock obsessed murderer in the house), where we found my neighbor clutching a tire iron and laughing his ass off, as my cat carefully carried a sock (in his mouth) from my laundry basket to the end of the hallway, where he was lining them up in a perfect straight line.
I guess that’s the story of how my cat almost got his head bashed in by a Scottish guy with a tire iron.