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The Panty Raid

I knew something was wrong the minute I walked in the door and saw the gold tissue on the floor. I use the delicate paper to wrap some of my rarely worn jewelry. Which had been safely stashed last I checked.

Oh God, I thought, we’ve been broken into.

I followed the trail into the master bedroom, where I found the bag that had once contained that tissue-wrapped jewelry ripped open. Its contents, along with half of my wardrobe, were strewn across the floor.

My heart hammering in my chest, I tried to take stock of what was in front of me. A quick inventory revealed that my random assortment of purely sentimental pieces appeared to all be present and accounted for. Which was a relief to be sure.

It was then that my attention was drawn to a pile of sodden fabric. I stooped to inspect it more closely and it clicked. It was my favorite pair of panties.

Or at least, what was left of them.

I was equal parts relieved and disgusted. This wasn’t a burglary at all, but a panty raid. And not the first, either.

I thought I’d found the perfect hiding place for my underthings to avoid further incident, but these perverts were craftier than I thought.

I turned to face the culprits who, at that very moment, were yipping excitedly at my heels.

Puppies.

They’re lucky they’re cute.

The culprits, Monstro and Pechita.

The culprits, Monstro and Pechita.