Yay, me! I found my missing sock that I accused Charlie of eating!
As an English teacher, I pride myself on my selection of exact, precise diction, so I was rather disappointed to find I had not chosen the right word to define the disappearance of my sock.
Let me tell a story.
When I was putting Charlie in his kennel out last night, a peculiar smell assaulted my nostrils and a curious color and texture stained his flannel blanket. When I pulled his bedding out, a trail of vomit followed. And tucked deep inside the blankie he so cherishes was my once white yet now orangey-brown sock. Covered in slime and gastric juices.
Charlie did not, in fact, EAT my sock; he swallowed it. Whole. And then puked it up.
I made Kory throw it away.