Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human has acquired what appears to be a torture device for string. It’s a rigid wooden frame they call a “lap loom,” which is an immediate declaration of war, as the lap is my sovereign territory. The entire purpose seems to be to methodically tangle colorful wool yarn into a flat, patterned rectangle. While the sheer volume of high-quality wool is undeniably appealing—offering tantalizing possibilities for batting and unraveling—the core activity seems dreadfully tedious. It’s a human-centric distraction that will occupy both prime real estate (the lap) and prime resources (the yarn), likely culminating in a coaster or a small, lumpy mat that could never hope to rival the exquisite texture of my own fur. A noble effort, perhaps, but a fundamental misunderstanding of what makes a surface truly comfortable.
Key Features
- Harrisville Lap Loom kit makes beautiful and colorful tapestries.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It began with an scent on the air—not the usual aromas of my salmon pâté or the human’s burnt toast, but something earthy, ancient, and deeply compelling. The smell of sheep. My human sat cross-legged on the floor, a new wooden idol between their knees. From a crinkly bag, they pulled forth hanks of yarn, not the slick, plastic-y kind from the craft store, but thick, soft, glorious wool in shades of twilight blue and mossy green. My initial disdain for this new lap-usurper softened into a professional curiosity. I observed from my perch on the armchair, a silent, gray-furred foreman. The human’s hands, usually employed for petting me or fumbling with a remote, moved with a strange, clumsy grace. They separated the vertical strings with a flat piece of wood, creating a little tunnel. Through this tunnel, they guided another piece of wood, this one sharp, trailing a long tail of blue wool. Then came the most curious part: a wooden comb-like thing they used to *thwack* the new blue thread down against its predecessor. *Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.* It was a slow, deliberate rhythm, a stark contrast to the chaotic jangling of most of my toys. This was not play; this was... construction. My skepticism warred with my instincts. I leapt down, landing with a soft thud, and padded over. The human was so engrossed in their work they didn't even notice me until my nose was an inch from the growing patch of color. I sniffed the wool. It was authentic. I could almost hear the distant bleating of its original owner. I extended a single, careful claw and snagged the trailing end of the green yarn. I gave it a tug. It was springy, resistant, alive. The human finally looked down, not with annoyance, but with a soft smile. "You're my little helper, aren't you, Pete?" they murmured. Helper? No. I am a quality control inspector. When the thing was finally cut from its wooden prison, it was a small, imperfect rectangle of woven warmth. The human laid it on the hardwood floor like an offering. I circled it once, twice, my whiskers twitching as I assessed its texture, its scent, its very soul. It was lumpy, the edges were uneven, and a single one of my gray hairs had been woven into the blue section—a clear mark of my oversight. I stepped onto its center, kneaded it with my paws, and settled into a loaf. It was not as soft as a cashmere throw, nor as warm as a sunbeam, but it was made of pure focus and good wool. It was a worthy, if primitive, shrine. I closed my eyes, accepting their tribute.
