When Sophie was young, she used to carry small socks around with her toys. The vet tells us it relieves stress for her. Okey-doke. It was fine until someone she didn't trust walked into the room. Then—gulp! She'd swallow the sock to keep from losing it. We had twenty minutes to get that thing out of her before it might call for surgery, so off we went to the vet. This happened five times over a couple of years, at $100 per sock for the emergency vet. (No, they don't offer frequent visit discounts. I asked.)
She always trusted me, so I started praising her for bringing me the socks. Then I'd hide them out of reach. This has turned into a daily ritual that requires Sophie to find and bring me a sock or three with a toy every single morning.
Yesterday she couldn't find a sock. She raced around downstairs. She came upstairs and rooted through Ben's jeans on the floor, pawing them aside in her search. No socks could be found. That afternoon, I had four socks on the table before dinner. I think she found them in laundry baskets in the basement. (And those baskets are on a table.)
Last night I asked Ben to please leave his socks on the floor for her to find in the morning. Yep, two dirty socks were dropped in my lap this morning along with a chew toy. Good dog!
Order is restored.