Jan was in the studio this morning, on the phone with a customer. On the other side of the room Bizzy, one eye on Jan, put a series of tools on the floor. Then he went to the Gammill and, thump, thump, thump, unrolled a batting from the tube. Still on the phone. Click. I’m sleeping now.
My grandchildren get socks for Christmas. I knit them year round, and put them on the Christmas shelf in my closet. This summer Trouble discovered socks on the needle. He carries them around, chin high, just short of announcing “I killed it myself.” Now I put socks on the needle in a zippered bag. Spare balls of yarn are in a tied bag, which he works at and sometimes gets opened just enough to fish out a ball. Over the summer Emily rescued a completed pair that could only have come from the Christmas shelf. Yes, they had. He can climb the dresser, remember. Short hop to the Christmas shelf. Now Christmas sox live on the top shelf of my bookcase.
It’s winding down to fall here, and this morning I got out wool socks for the first time. Opened the drawer, put them on the bed. A black flash, one sock gone. A knee sock, sailing like a pirate banner. I chased him, all the way to the living room. Under the chair. He neglected to hide his tail, too, so I slid him out—sans sock! He knew what I was after. I had to move the chair and restrain the cat to retrieve my sock. For good measure, I held onto him until I had both socks in hand. I see I need to invest in a laundry hamper with a lid.