(no subject)
As it turns out, one of the few things this island doesn't have is a pair of knitting needles and some yarn Britta can use, but she has a lot of spare time on her hands, so it's only so long before she puts her ingenuity to the test. None of the Compound cats seem to be in any need of visual aids of any kind, but with the snow coming down, Britta needs something to distract her from the disturbing lack of angles and edges in the new architecture. (It's not that she's afraid of curves or anything, but the distinct lack of anything else in most of the buildings is seriously bugging her.)
With scissors, ugly Hawaiian print shirts from the clothes box and the kind of patience Britta reserves for small animals and strangers who live in the third world or on the street, she finds it is, in fact, possible to make something kind of like a tiny scarf. Fortunately, the box seems as inclined to put the animals in ugly clothes as it is with their owners, so it's with a collection of undersized sweaters and crooked flannel scarves that Britta finds herself in the rec room, fitting the animals with their new clothes. While she's aware that she probably looks deranged to most people, she likes to think the cats themselves are appreciative. "You have almost no ears," she tells one of them, a grey-striped cat who looks perpetually startled and has almost no tail to speak of either. "I should have brought you a hat."
The yellow tabby, though, the one Britta found sleeping in the box, seems less than thrilled with her new accoutrements, hissing and swiping at Britta's hand. "Ow!" she yelps, dropping cat and scarf alike to press her hand to the scratch marks, shallow but bleeding all the same. She keeps thinking she ought to be used to that, but it still stings.
Emma's only intention is to find something to read when the cat comes running at her and refuses to swerve in its course. At the very last moment, it's Emma who gives, side-stepping the yowling creature and rolling her eyes as she tries to continue on her way, only to find she can't budge. Craning her head back, she scowls at the mistletoe. "Of course."
[Tag one or the other, just let me know which you want. :D]
With scissors, ugly Hawaiian print shirts from the clothes box and the kind of patience Britta reserves for small animals and strangers who live in the third world or on the street, she finds it is, in fact, possible to make something kind of like a tiny scarf. Fortunately, the box seems as inclined to put the animals in ugly clothes as it is with their owners, so it's with a collection of undersized sweaters and crooked flannel scarves that Britta finds herself in the rec room, fitting the animals with their new clothes. While she's aware that she probably looks deranged to most people, she likes to think the cats themselves are appreciative. "You have almost no ears," she tells one of them, a grey-striped cat who looks perpetually startled and has almost no tail to speak of either. "I should have brought you a hat."
The yellow tabby, though, the one Britta found sleeping in the box, seems less than thrilled with her new accoutrements, hissing and swiping at Britta's hand. "Ow!" she yelps, dropping cat and scarf alike to press her hand to the scratch marks, shallow but bleeding all the same. She keeps thinking she ought to be used to that, but it still stings.
Emma's only intention is to find something to read when the cat comes running at her and refuses to swerve in its course. At the very last moment, it's Emma who gives, side-stepping the yowling creature and rolling her eyes as she tries to continue on her way, only to find she can't budge. Craning her head back, she scowls at the mistletoe. "Of course."
[Tag one or the other, just let me know which you want. :D]