“Sock!” wails my oldest son. We spring into action. Finding the door to my youngest son’s room open, we proceed inside to validate our fears. Our Great Dane, Leia, lies still on her dog bed, bigger than most queen mattresses, looking guilty. “Where is the other one, why did you leave your door open?” our oldest, holding up a singular Bombas sock, queries his younger brother. It’s painfully clear what’s happened. Leia has, again, eaten a sock. This revelation inspires a crisp trip to the vet. ...