I have a feeling that the blog is going to have titles like that for a little while. (I keep wanting to title it “Call me Ishmael” but I worry I’m the only one who’s going to get the joke.) I’m almost embarrassed to show you my progress. Rows are slow now, and I’m feeling triumphant beyond words if I manage my allotted two rows a day. It is seventeen days until shawl deadline, and I have 25 rows (and a really, really long cast-off) to go.
I like my odds right now, but how intense the thing is – well, it’s making me a little neurotic. I have a black cat – and while Millie is normally a perfect knitters cat, uninterested in yarn, likes to lie beside me while I knit, rather than on my lap… in recent days she has become a creature possessed. She’s long haired, and it’s spring, so she’s shedding what seems like an amount of black hair that should have long ago left her bald, and her only mission in life right now (beyond her regular patrol of the front windows, hissing at squirrels) is to get. On. That. Big. White. Thing. Maybe hook a claw in it. Perhaps chew a little at the edge. Anything. Just a taste.
When I leave the room now, if I put down the great white, it has to go in a cat free zone, or go with me, and right this minute it is resting in a largish ziplock bag. Millie is enraged, but vigilant. We both know that eventually I’m going to make a mistake, and that cat is waiting.
I’m just going to have to be more alert than that cat.