...that you heard scream yesterday afternoon. Several folks have been "donating" their yarn and other items to me to use for my knitting projects. Needless to say, my stash overfloweth. So, I decided to go upstairs and sort things out -- you know, acrylic here, wool there, weaving perle cotton over here.
I keep all the acrylic and some wool in an antique chest of drawers, never suspecting that some tiny little evil minion would use it to make a bed for his family.
The first two drawers were stellar. Nothing out of place. Then... I opened the third drawer, the one with my lovely lovely grey wool for a cardigan. It had been sullied. Mangled. Chewed to perfection for a warm nest in which to raise one's children. I screamed. A lot.
Needless to say, there will be a new plan for the yarn.
In the meantime, I have had a tough talk with Wookie about his lack of mouse prowess, explored the idea of adopting a hungrier and less geriatric kitty, and placed a number of inhumane traps throughout the room. I am on the hunt -- as bonnie Robert Burns wrote:
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [you aren't alone]
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy.