The dogs have a strange fascination with my underthings and I will occasionally find a pair in an inappropriate part of the house, where they left it before moving on to something more interesting.
That happened last night, and when I complained about it, Keith said dryly that there was also a pair in his truck.
"Your truck?" I asked, aghast. "How did it get in your truck?"
Keith's uniforms have countless pockets, all of which close with heavy velcro; when they come out of the dryer, I have to rip them apart to straighten them out.
Apparently, one morning when he was very tired, he pulled a uniform out of the basket and put it on as usual, and headed off to work. He was sitting at his desk, going through his paperwork when one of his office mates asked him, a little too innocently, what was on his jacket.
He knew immediately what it was and so did they, he stuffed it down beside him on the chair, but not before he was razed most unmercifully about it.
"Come on, Sarge, let's see your panties!" and "Let's see what size they are!" was the general outcry. He stubbornly refused, gentleman that he is and at the next possible opportunity, they found their way to the hidden recesses of his truck, where they remain yet.
When he told me this story, I laughed so hard I could hardly breathe. "I'm glad you find it funny," Keith said gruffly, stuffing his smile out of sight. Lord help me, I do. I wonder if it was my pink pair, I'd wondered where they'd gotten to.
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