About a year ago, I bought a fleece from Windrush Farm. I got about half of it washed, and then I just ran out of steam. This past fall and winter were a terrible time for me. I had no energy, and was a shadow of my usual self. This came on slowly, so I didn't take it as seriously as I should have. Given the choice between doing something interesting and going to bed, I'd choose bed.
Thankfully, I did realize that there was something more than laziness at play, and finally got it taken care of. In my case, I had an untreated sinus infection that was sucking away all of my energy. I'm feeling much better now, and am a much happier person.
Anyway, here's what this fleece looked like, before I tore it into manageable pieces and set about washing. I always enjoy how a well-shorn fleece is like a giant fuzzy sheep-cardigan. The belly and butt fur have been removed because they're just too messy to work with, but the rest of the fleece is sheep-shape.
The fleece wasn't labeled, but it is almost surely a shetland-corriedale cross. It was a lovely silvery-grey, and not particularly greasy. It did, however contain about half a meadow's worth of briars and burrs and mysterious grassy dust. The first fleece I ever bought was the World's Greasiest Fleece, and so it figures that my next project would present a whole different set of challenges.
Back when I originally bought this fleece, I wrote "When I spread it out on the living room floor to show Robb, the cats
just about lost their minds. If a cat could pull a nose muscle from
sniffing too hard, both Linguine and Smog would have done so."
The allure of the sheep is still strong, and the cats all took turns investigating the fluffy pile of wool. It turns out that cats are not merely warriors in the War On String, but will put up a fight against unborn proto-string as well.
While the cats planned their campaign against foreign yarns, the three little white dogs who live next door must have quaked in fear.
I'm sure they stayed up late last night, telling scary stories about the neighbors who feast on the blood of innocent puppies, and then display poodle scalps to honor their primitive gods.