“Too bad your columns aren’t as light as your drink,” a husky voice said. It was early o’clock at Nori’s as I added oat milk to my coffee.

“Pardon?” I leaned toward him. He added sugar to his.

“Your columns were fun, now it’s all a reflection on the state of the world.”

He snapped the lid on his cup and turned away, saying, “Write about your dog, or something.”

Um. Dude. A) Who are you? and B) Alright already, I’ll drop something light.

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Of dogs and socks

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Not to brag, but my Uncle Chet told me I have beautiful ankles.

After a homegrown winter in my ADK uniform — long johns, knee socks — my ankles and feet are itching for a breath of fresh air.

On the precipice of my favorite time of year — barefoot season — I can hardly wait for my toes to taste the freedom of terra firma.

As today’s sleet storm reinforced, we aren’t there yet, so they remain stuffed in mismatched socks.

The right socks are essential. Finding matching socks at our house happens twice a month at best. What is the root cause of this sock chaos? One highly intelligent, relentlessly motivated Jack Russell Terrier aptly named Hurricane.

We luckily acquired Hurricane from Kristin Aldrich when her dog had a litter of four croissant-sized pups. At home, Hurri bonded to our old, mostly deaf pug and our golden retriever. As Hurri grew (slightly), we found him to be charming, whip-smart and obsessed with socks. Any sock will do, but he preferred the nicest ones.

Hurri is not a normal Jack Russell. Hurri plays tag with our cat. He won’t sleep on our bed. He is a Jack Russell with a tail who ignores small mammals, rarely barks and eats carrots by the bag. Picture a 15-pound, power-packed athlete with the patience of online IT support, staring you down with a sock by his paw — the one you couldn’t find this morning.

I imagine in other, organized abodes, the sock soldiers live in orderly rows in dresser drawers. Our socks are in two baskets.

Every few weeks (months), I dump the socks out to mate and donate. This is an easy task until you add in the Hurricane factor, the canine kleptomaniac who carries them around the house, trails and fields of our back 40.

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A house divided

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The two baskets are divided. The first basket of socks is “mated,” while the second is “waiting for a miracle.” The mated basket includes sibling socks (same size and color), cousins (same color), relatives (same shade) or, in extreme cases, a completely mismatched community pair. The miracle basket contains favorites waiting for their mates to return, like an emperor penguin in the Antarctic.

New, matching socks are a prized possession chez nous. One glorious winter of feet content, I bought three pairs of Bombas knee socks. Determined to keep them out of Gen Pop, I washed them separately and hid them where no one would look, near the cleaning supplies.

Hurri follows me, watching with the intensity of a dire wolf for a pause — an opening to fetch me from the static of human thought, so I will play. I do play, but sometimes I tell him to lie down so I can focus. Then he tries different socks, like maybe a pink, striped or pattern — that one to solicit some puppy love. When I am writing, I make a pile by my computer, which is now an eight socks stack — a mildly productive day, depending on your meter of what is important.

I go to my room and shut him out for complete focus. But what, exactly, would I gain — tidier drawers? More time to edit columns and novels that may never reach my standard of satisfaction? His request to play isn’t an annoyance; it’s an invitation to be present.

I won’t be an ankle model. I won’t look back and wish I’d spent more time pairing socks. But someday, when the house is quiet and the baskets stay suspiciously full, I’ll wish for one more interruption — one more stolen sock, one more hopeful stare, one more session of toss.

Until then, the Sock Bandit can have his miracles.