The Pasta Heist

The weekend Socks briefly turned to crime.

The most well-behaved dog in the world, right? Until there’s pasta or a visitor that is.

Socks, who is absolutely not a food thief, staged a pasta heist.

I live with a creature who has read The Art of War and chosen chaos.

Let me be clear. This is a dog so well-behaved he could run for local office. He does not counter-surf. He does not steal. He does not even consider theft. He has a sensitive stomach, a carefully curated kibble situation, and a vet who recently suggested, in that gentle tone reserved for difficult truths, that he is “a little bit overweight.”

Until lately.

Socks has been moving through the house like a Dickensian orphan. Starving. Unloved. Moments from collapse. I measure his food. I ration his delicate, hypoallergenic, possibly grain-offending treats. His tummy is fragile. His constitution is refined. He cannot simply eat whatever the peasants are eating.

And yet.

Friday night: soccer runs, grilled cheese, spaghetti with a truly aggressive spicy tomato sauce. My son makes a plate for my boyfriend, who is on his way back from the train. The plate sits unattended for what can only be described as a fatal window of opportunity.

We return to a crime scene.

Children shouting. Tomato sauce splattered across the floor like modern art. An empty plate. And Socks—who had already eaten his perfectly balanced kibble—standing there with the distant, satisfied expression of a dog who has tasted forbidden marinara.

My boyfriend, who had been looking forward to that pasta in a quiet, post-train, end-of-week way, stared at the carnage. There was nothing else in the house to eat. Socks had not merely eaten dinner. He had finished off our stocks.

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Meanwhile, in human injury news: my boyfriend recently hammer-broke his thumb and had a successful surgery. He has been wandering around the house with his left hand bandaged and in a sling, insisting he “gets by.” Zipping pants? Gets by. Opening jars? Gets by. Washing dishes? There are… workarounds.

Then Sunday happened.

It was beautiful out. Door open. My son’s friend over. Socks, who cannot emotionally process visitors, was stationed in my bedroom. The boys went for a walk. I told my son to text before they came back so I could manage the dog.

He did not text.

I see them approaching. I yell. Too late. Socks launches out the door barking like he’s defending the realm. I run after him, hit the rugs by the door, sliding like it’s a rug toboggan, and go down spectacularly. Full cartoon physics. Hands, knees, the whole thing. I jam my wrist so hard I let out a wolf howl.

Ice. Compression. Sling.

So now we are a household of two adults, both with one functional hand between us.

There is a photo. Matching slings. Cardigans draped over shoulders with one loose arm. To fasten my wrist brace, we had to collaborate. Velcro held between our chins.

All the while, Socks observed.

Uninjured. Digestively triumphant. Entirely unaware that his spicy pasta rebellion and front-door jailbreak had reduced his caregivers to a cooperative two-person organism.

And yet.

Here he is, in this final photo, sitting by the door waiting for my boyfriend to return with a baguette. Patient. Noble. Starving, apparently. A portrait of restraint.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d never stolen a thing in his life.

Which, technically, until Friday, he hadn’t. Well, except for that one time after my birthday party when he cleaned up everything but the savory cake I made (remember that insult?).

We remain vigilant. The kibble remains measured. The rugs may need to be glued down. And Socks continues to move through this world as both its most delicate creature and its most successful opportunist.

Oh you think this is funny, eh?