Everyone knows that Julia Child enjoyed a good meal. In her girlish tones and sing-song cadence, she praised well-cooked, well-served food, rejoicing as she ate. But behind the scenes, she was no lady. Child would go to any length to get that kind of meal to her table: hack through bone and gristle, decapitate a chicken, ram a blade into the head of a shellfish or, better yet, throw it straight into a pot of roiling water and boil it to death.
My dog, Eloise, feels the same way about socks. Any sock – women’s or men’s, laundered or unlaundered, multicolored or monotone. She devotes herself to the task of retrieving one, straight out of your hand if need be, but more often by dashing into an open closet door, diving into a hamper full of clothing, yanking out a single sock and then racing out of the room like a bat out of hell, seeking out the first person in the family she can find to prance around in triumph with a sock dangling out of her mouth as if it were her first kill on a hunting expedition for small prey.