Strings of any kind fascinate my cat. He is expert at shnicking right through the cords on blinds, and he’s even shortened the drawstrings on my sweat pants. And I know this about him. I know that if I leave strings around there’s no way I can blame him for following his compulsion to eat them.

Which is why I can only be sad tonight. No revenge is possible.

While I was in school, I worked slowly and methodically over the course of two years to weave a shawl. It was the most complicated pattern I’d ever done. Each repeat of the star-like pattern took 96 threads. And those 96 threads would only make up a couple of inches of weaving because the wool I used was finer than sewing thread. Thread by thread, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch, and yard by yard, I wove my way through my degree, finishing just in time to pack my things and move toward my first job. And now, because I believe in using the things I make, I wear this shawl every day as a scarf.

And every night I make sure to tuck the minute fringes well out of sight so that they don’t mount their siren’s call for my cat. Every night, that is, except last night. And now I need to figure out some way of repairing the fringe.