Drat drat drat

Bad enough I’m doing taxes.  Bad enough it’s going to snow again tonight and something out on the front deck is groaning and bumping forlornly in the wind.  Probably the roof, falling off.  But here I came into the living room just now, wondering what the heck the puppies were fighting over, and found the saddest thing – the saaaaadddddest thing: a small damp tangle of stuffing and turquoise wool roving.  Very small.  Exceeeedingly small.  All that was left of the mighty six-hour, totally spotted needle felted egg I had finished yesterday for my swap with anna.  And I had just begun to love it so much.

This isn’t the puppies’ fault.  It’s mine.  Just like—if you get killed by a horse, it’s your own fault.  I was kind of pressing the egg because some of its spots had gotten a little emphatic.  And the pressing was working, the egg all stuck between a fat, heavy architecture book and a ceramic tile book as it was.  But I just had to go and take the pile of books off the ottoman and schlep them into the den to be stowed behind the desk.  I was trying to clean up a little (HA).  Just had to do i right then, didn’t  I?  Because of the taxes.  Because of looking for Chaz’ W-2s.  Which were really for the house they’re all buying, the kids.  But really because I put the taxes into one of the ottoman piles.  Because there’s nowhere else in the house to find a surface that has any space left on it.  And the egg must have fallen out (I had thought to myself when I put it there: don’t FORGET the EGG).  Onto the floor.  How could they resist?

I would put ashes on my head, except we’ve got a gas fireplace.

And I hadn’t even taken a picture of it yet.

Phooey.

I’ll find the rest of it later.  After the snow melts, I’m sure.

I wish I knew a really really sad song.  (Maybe How Much is that Doggie in the Window.)

I left the little pile on the floor.  I couldn’t stand to pick it up.  A few minutes later, Tucker settled down to finish the job.  But I saw him.  And I snatched it.  And I yelled NONONONO for about ten minutes.  Then I threw it back down and collapsed onto the couch.  He sat up.  And kind of didn’t dare to move for a long time, watching me.  Now, the little pile is where I left it, but he is lying in the front hall.  In the dark.  With his chin on his paws.

That’s the last time HE’ll ever eat a needle felted egg, boy.