I arrive home after a long hard day of enduring the cold harsh realities of life in the real world. I know I'm home for the evening, so I immediately dive into the pajamas that have been patiently awaiting my return, having been
Except, that is, for my underwear and socks. Those I discard in a small heap on the floor next to our bed. Who can blame me? The laundry basket is all the way on the other side of the room, for pete's sake. So there they accumulate, awaiting the moment when I finally gather them up and put them where I was supposed to put them in the first place.
By the time Saturday rolls around, there typically is a variety of panties and/or enough socks to field a baseball team in my pile.
Saturday morning as Wendy tripped to the kitchen to fill our weekend coffee mugs, she called up the stairs to me. "Suzanne, did you take your panties off in the living room last night?"
"Ummmm.... no.... no, I don't think so," I replied.
"Then why is there a pair of your panties on the dog bed?" she queried.
Wendy, being the ever-so-patient and thoughtful woman that she is, picked up those stray panties and put them in the laundry basket where I was supposed to have put them in the first place.
We sipped our coffee while doing lazy Saturday morning things. After awhile, I went down to refill our mugs. As I passed the doggie bed in the living room, I noticed my panties were still laying there. I called up the stairs to her. "My panties are still on the dog bed!"
"What?" she said, "I picked those up. Are they pink?"
"No, these are white."
It would appear our new resident is one of those. One of those panty pooches. I do wonder why it took her exactly a week to begin her collection. Is this an indication Pixie is feeling at home? Or is it something more... sinister?