So much for my hand-made sweater......

When I went to bed last night I began to wonder where Willy was.  He and Patrick are usually  waiting for me when I get there.  I always watch TV for an hour or so, and as time went by I began to wonder what Willy could be doing.  I had called him several times to no avail.  Finally he respond by leaping onto my chest and lapping my face (no surprise there).  Then I noticed that he had some red on his foot.  Closer inspection revealed red on his face, his body, and his tail.  I thought he must have hurt himself and was bleeding profusely.  His right paw was the worst, so I imagined him getting his nail caught on something and pulling it out trying to get free.  Carrying him gingerly and uttering comforting noises, I carried him into the bathroom to investigate further.  Still I couldn't find the source of the "bleeding."  He didn't seem to be in pain, either, but that could just be stoicism.  I turned on the shower, which he loves, and put him in the tub.  Carefully I tried to wipe his paw.  By then I had begun to suspect that the red was not blood......the color of it was a little off.  I got a washcloth and shampoo, scrubbed him harder and harder with only minimal success.  It finally dawned on me that he had gotten into something.  I did the best I could to get him clean, but with only minimal success.  After I dried both of us with the hair dryer and assured myself that he was no longer leaving a red trail behind him, I let him go.

Willy made himself comfortable on my bed while I looked for the scene of the crime.  My limited imagination was incapable of forming a theory.  Finally I went into my old bedroom, where I had thrown everything helter skelter in the process of moving to the other room.  On the bed, in the midst of a pile of winter clothes, sheets, and blankets I found it.  Somewhere Willy had found a tube of red oil paint, chewed it, and spread the paint all over himself and everything near him.  He had made himself comfortable on my beloved hand-knit bulky sweater that I made and have worn since I lived on Wilson St.  Luckily I am good at assessing a situation for what it is and didn't waste time crying over the sweater or getting angry with myself or my pink-tinged boy.  I took the sweater down to the washing machine, rightfully not really expecting miracles.  The picture shows the sweater after two washings.

I guess I better find that pattern and start knitting again.