A while back I made a shrug. Just a simple rectangle in a drop stitch pattern to cover my shoulders when I get chilly in the summer. No big whoop. At first, I made it too small, so I pulled out the cuff and added a couple more inches. Then I plopped it here on my desk to wait for me to bother weaving in the ends. Some time later, I stuck it in the bag that hangs on the back of my office door. The bag has become a holding place for all the bits and pieces that need finishing.
This afternoon, I decided that I ought to finish up said shrug, since it is sometimes chilly in here and I wear a lot of tank tops. But alas, this shrug was just not meant to be.
Somehow a hole got in it. Now I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that the perpetrator is one of my offspring. I'm pretty sure my cats are too lazy to bother. If I had loved the thing, I'd be sad. But after trying it on today, it turns out I didn't like it so much.
Maybe the shrug tore itself in a crazed expression of pain at your lack of love for it? Oh well, I'm glad that the damage isn't a tragedy.
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