I ate a sock because people on the internet told me to.

One of the things I love to do, and have done for many years, is to take the Sunday newspaper and go out on the deck if it’s a warm sunny day, and spend the morning reading and dozing off until lunch time.

Lunch time on a Sunday is a tradition begun by my mother when I was a child. No doubt inherited from her mother, before which the origin of the tradition becomes murky. Even now, with my children grown and with families of their own, when they are in town they look forward to Sunday lunch. In fact, some have decided to carry on the tradition in their homes. I am sure my mother is looking down from heaven very pleased that her little tradition has multiplied over the decades.

So, today, Sunday is no different from every other Sunday. I opened the front door, picked up the newspaper, and grabbed my coffee from the counter in the kitchen. I then opened the back door leading to the deck for my middle aged black lab, Lucky, to run out to chase a few birds before returning and spreading herself as much as she could on the deck, letting out a groan of satisfaction.

I, however, grabbed one of the two lounge chairs, turned it on its side, banging it to get rid of any microscopic dust or life forms that had over stayed their welcome. I dropped the newspaper on the deck, laid down closing my eyes waiting for the sun to reappear from behind a puffy white cloud to warm up my body. It was the middle of June, a week or so after my birthday where everyone wished me a happy birthday with the obligatory words ‘and many more’ attached to the end while I pretended to be happy to be another year older.

I had now reached the age when people of the same age died, it was no longer classified as died too young or very young, but that he died of natural causes at a ripe old age. That was the last section of the newspaper I read, if I read it at all. Sometimes it went right into the recycling bin before I opened it just in case I was met by the name of someone I knew faintly. The sun reappeared and smiled at me. Lucky closed her eyes and coughed. I opened the main section of the newspaper and quickly glanced over the headlines, which never really seemed to change much. Just the locations, dates and people. But the incidents themselves whether they were murders, hijackings, car jackings, wars, bombs exploding were the same. I lowered the paper for a second and looked at Lucky. What an apt name. She’s such a lucky dog. We found her on the roadside about 10 years ago. She was just a little puppy. My wife and I were driving behind a truck which appeared to speed up and slow down and then eventually stopped in the middle of the road, thank goodness it wasn’t a busy time of day, and the driver threw out what appeared to be a little dog. And indeed, it was. As it sped up, I told Martha to take a photograph of the license plate while I stopped the car and jumped out. I scooped up this little package of goodness and brought her back to the car. She was so scared. She was shivering and shaking looking at us petrified that she had only 5 more minutes to live. That was ten years ago.

“Did you get the licence plate number?” I asked and Martha smiled. She handed me her phone and then she scooped up the terrified puppy and wrapped her arms around her.

The police were fabulous and so was the court. 5 years is what that hill billy got. 5 years. I wanted the death sentence, but as the local DA told me he couldn’t push for that because the dog hadn’t died. He was being nice to us.

I reached down and patted Lucky on her stomach and she thumped her tail on the deck in appreciation. I’ve always wondered if she had any memories of those days. Probably not. I think we both wish we didn’t either.

I straightened myself on the lounge chair and decided to look at some of the other sections in the hope of finding something more light hearted. It was section F, the social section. As I opened it to the second page, I laughed as soon as I saw the headline. Mother relates story to the paper, ‘I ate a sock because people on the internet told me to.’ That’s what her son of 9 told her.

“Did he at least cut it up before he did?” asked the reporter, probably annoyed that she had been tasked with writing about this story.

“No, the son just chewed it up.” It was a small sock though. One of his sister’s Barbies’ socks so how bad could it be?

“Lucky,” I said and she looked up at me as if to say please don’t disturb me unless its lunch time which I know it isn’t, because you haven’t fed me breakfast yet and you still have your coffee. She put her head back down hoping I would get the hint. “Lucky,” I repeated and she raised her head again in acknowledgment that until I had finished saying what I was about to say, she couldn’t go back to sleep. “Do you remember?” I asked her as if she could remember, “do you remember the time when you used to put your head in the drier while Martha was loading it and running off with a sock?” She did it a few times. That’s it? she thought and with an extended groan put her head back on the deck. “But then,” I continued completely oblivious to her nonchalance, “but then you decided to start chewing on them.” I let out a laugh, “and look here on this page in the newspaper. There’s a nine year old child who does the same thing, except in his case he got the idea from the internet.”

Lucky wasn’t interested. I heard her thump her tail. I saw Martha wave to her from the kitchen window. She jumped up with the energy of a puppy. The same sort of energy she had a few months after we had rescued her. She knew Martha would feed her. I took a sip of my coffee and laid that section down and closed my eyes.

I think Martha is making a roast chicken for lunch today, together of course with peas, garlic mashed potatoes, and gravy and oh yes, you can’t forget the bread sauce. Must have the bread sauce. My mother would approve. Martha opened the door on to the deck and let Lucky in. I was alone now, alone until lunch.