In the garden this morning, in between picking up poo and scattering mealworms, I've made conversation with the slip between winter and spring.
The current granny square total is 7. That is a seventh of the total I'll need. I laid them in a row to check, yes, they should cover Moo's knees, or make a nice splodge of home in the middle of her bed, or chucked over a chair.
The ole ginger arsehole Mojo Beans, Mighty of Battlesqueak (checker of crochet and stealer of workspace), is her cat. Found cold, thin, and hungry by a postbox in Leeds, he followed students into their warm, tuna-ed house, and never left. Spayed, not chipped, cared for at one time although wary of big men, except, now, for G, whom he adores. Posters and social media were actively ignored by his wise ex-owner so across the border he came. And stayed, when she moved into a rental that wasn't suitable for pets. If he didn't square up to the dog and my beloved Mr. Bailey (also spayed, large, tabby, stealer of morning bed book space) all would be well. But the ginger arsehole is, indeed, an arsehole.
I can't imagine ever being acquired by a cat by any means other than need or accident. Cats just happen. I think all my formative years of Nanna, who was systematically similarly acquired, plonking me in charge of the book stall at Bury Stray Cat Fund and Cats' Protection League jumble sales marked me out as a shortcut.