A Puppy Named Socks

When I was little, growing up on Little Long Lake in the quaint little town of Hickory Corners, my parents made me one happy little girl - they got me a puppy. 
From what I can remember, he was an outdoor-only type of puppy.  His rambunctious ways were too unruly for the house so we got him a dog house and a generous length of chain and let him roam the front yard attached to our big tree.  And his name was Socks.  Why?  Because he loved, loved chewing on socks.  Especially my dad's really long tube-socks (hey, it was the 80's in Michigan, tube socks were all the rage).  So we named him Socks, and relegated to tying tube socks in knots for him to play with and chew on.  Then one day we woke up and he was gone.  Stolen.  Dog house and all.  I was sad.  I mean, I was four years old, what's a girl to do when her puppy gets stolen?
Flash forward 23 years and that sweet little girl is all grown up, married and now has a child of her own.  The precious little boy is growing up in subdivision in the big city of Charlotte.  But he doesn't need a dog named socks.  All he needs are socks. 

  

  

    

    

That's right, folks.  My son casts aside his baby toy to go after his socks.  He yanks them off (trying with all his might until he gets it) and stuffs them as hard and fast as he can right into his mouth.  He gnaws on them.  Yanks on it as its hanging out of his mouth, and when he's satisfied with one, he goes for the other. Socks.  They're all the rage these days.