At 1 a.m., the next night, I looked out the same window to see this thug stealing my sweat socks! Four of them!
Marauder!
I have been battling the weeds in our yard. They ate our deck, the tool shed, Donna's self-esteem, and, we think, a mail lady.
I fold my work clothes after each perspiration-drenched skirmish and place them on the porch chair for another round.
Apparently, the nocturnal visitor was snooping and became highly stimulated by my manly scent (who doesn't?), because, after his curious rendezvous with my cotton footwear, he returned to the chair seat and rolled, burrowed, and slobbered into my navy blue tee-shirt and old sneakers, biting feverishly at the materials. He was as aroused as kitties in catnip.
I began to feel the humidity waft off his slobber when an unrelated rain shower pelted the house. The varmint skittered across the porch and down the steps, disappearing into the woodsy darkness.
After an additional observation period and the recitation of several Psalms and a brief prayer to that gardener on HGTV, I opened the kitchen door to the porch. The large wok strainer and spritz bottle of Extra Strength Febreze gave me defensive courage as I clutched them hard, shuffling gingerly into the outside.
I did not see the intruder, but I did find the missing clothing in a disheveled pile beneath the rocking chair. The white crews were sopping with trespasser saliva. There were big drool splotches on my shirt. I'll get a tetanus injection and baby aspirin before I search my shoes.
And then it hit me.
What if my neighbor isn't a he? What if she was looking for a cozy spot to birth babies?
Nuh uh. We'll have none of that. The love nest had to go.
Seconds later, I salad-tonged my various spittle apparel into a plastic bag.
I heard Willie Nelson croon, "Michael, don't let your sweat socks gross up to be daddies...."
