Day Eight. A cry from the outpost.
The miters have fallen hostage to the Feline Guard. I have received no ransom, yet still hold faith that they may once again be returned to us unscathed.
The tension at OSOH is suffocating. A quarter ball of Cream cotton has disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Only yesterday, I discovered tooth marks and strange saliva-type moisture oozing from a trailing strand on a wayward skein of River. My circular size 3 will no longer venture from my side. A callous is rising on on the side my third digit. I fear for the fate of my fingers.
I suspect that I am under constant scrutiny. So this is what it feels like to be a mouse.
I hear rumors from the UFO stockpile that certain Socks are in the early stages of a coup in protest to the lack of equal opportunity knitting. The cats are cranky and the Boy may have figured out that there is more yarn in the apartment this week than was there last week. He's smart like that.
Day Eight and it is all coming down around my ears. Please send reinforcements.