I discovered a hole in the centre of the quilt on my bed, complete with little tufts of batting floofed out 0n the surrounding blocks. I'm not currently pointing a finger, but if I were, it would be pointed at Paku. My Skinny-Bee, my Ping-ping, my destructive terror who hides behind a mask of timid adorability. God damn, skinny cat.
Luckily, the quilt is not one of my ultra-favourites. It has sentimental value, yes, as it is the quilt I pieced in my last year in Japan, and is made of a mix of fabrics (a stack of fat quarters I bought in Stratford, fabrics I bought at the Yuzawaya in Tachikawa, sheets from my single bed at the Gaijin House), but it is not a quilt I look at and think, "That is totally my style." My style has changed so much in almost five years, and I can't imagine making a quilt like this one again.
Still, I should have remembered the cats had it in for this quilt. One time, when I was still quilting it, Rodney peed on it when I put it down to make supper. Of course he chose one of the dark red sections, and the colour ran. I had to wash it right away, even though only the very centre of it was quilted. I think I locked him out on the balcony for a while so that I wouldn't accidentally kick him to death.*
Anywhoodle, they are now curled up at the end of the bed, propped up against my feet. You'd think they never had any thoughts toward this quilt other than it being a cherished resting place. Jerks.
*I would never kick either of them to death, accidentally or on purpose, no matter how often I threaten to murder them to death. Which is often.
What a little turd!
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