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Hannibal perused the bins of fine llama and cashmere yarns, downy soft and rich to the touch. They were all in undyed hues, giving off the colors of the animals from which they were spun. They ranged from clotted cream to deepest espresso and everything in between.
A young woman approached him. “Is this your first time at Knit Knacks?” she asked.
“I’ve only just taken up knitting,” he said. “Have you any Qiviut? I’ve read that it’s warmer and finer than cashmere by far.”
She made a low whistle. “Boy, you just decided to jump right off the deep end from the start, eh?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Qiviut is sooo expensive. We don’t even have it in stock,” she said. “I could probably order some, although you’d have to pay upfront. How much do you need?”
“Enough to make sweaters for seven dogs,” he said. He held his hands about a foot apart and then three feet apart. “They range in size thus.”
She stared at him, mouth agape. The delicate, jeweled piercing in her left eyebrow danced as her forehead wrinkled in surprise.
“Have I said something wrong?” he asked.
“It’s just… wow. Wow! I mean, aside from the astronomical expense, it wouldn’t be practical for dogs,” she finally said, shaking her head. “It’s not stretchy enough, and much too warm for them. Same with the llama you’re ogling, and probably the cashmere, too.”
“Then what do you suggest?” he asked.
“Something washable for sure,” she said, “unless you want to send your pups’s sweaters to be dry-cleaned.”
Hannibal thought it over. He tried to picture Will taking seven dog sweaters to the cleaner’s every week, but the image wouldn’t form with any permanence. Will was too practical for that.
He sighed in resignation. “Show me something machine washable, then.”
*************
Hannibal returned home with knitting needles and bags of English yarn in various colors, all in a slightly nubby weave that he’d been reassured would resemble tweed suiting when knitted up.
He sat down with his tablet and pulled up the pattern he’d selected. As he scrolled through the file, he came to instructions that told him to measure the dog carefully. “Of course,” he sighed.
He briefly contemplated simply guessing at each dog’s dimensions. He had, after all, spent some time with them and he had an aptitude for artistic endeavors. It wasn’t as if he’d ever measured his old boarding school, and he was able to draw it in detail from memory. And couldn’t knitting be considered drawing with yarn?
He sighed again, deciding he didn’t want to chance it. If he meant to show Will how much he cared for him and his life, then specifics mattered. Will mattered. That was that.
************
Unsurprisingly, Buster turned out to be the most difficult to measure.
Hannibal had waited until he was quite sure Will wasn’t home before making his way inside with tape measure in hand. All the other dogs were made obedient with bites of sausage, but the little terrier led him on a chase through the house.
He finally snagged the dog with his tape measure. The other dogs began barking so vociferously that he didn’t hear Will’s car in the driveway, nor the subsequent opening of the front door.
“Hannibal?” Will called. “Hannibal, don’t pretend you’re not here. I saw your car!”
Hannibal stood up from behind the kitchen counter, Buster still wriggling in his arms. "Will. I can explain.“
Will glared at him. "Are you… are you trying to garrote my dog?”
Hannibal looked down at the loop of tape around Buster’s neck, then back up at Will. “I understand this looks a bit unusual…”
Will’s arms flailed in exasperation. “That’s an understatement! What could you possibly have to say for yourself, Doctor?”
“I was measuring your dogs,” he said slowly, “not choking them, I assure you.”
Hannibal set Buster down and reached into his pocket for his phone. He pulled up the pattern to show Will.
Will narrowed his eyes at the screen. “A… dog… sweater? You’re making a sweater for Buster?”
“For all your dogs,” Hannibal said. “I purchased fifty skeins of yarn today.”
Will’s mouth worked silently, seemingly unable to find words.
“I wanted to apologize, in a way,” Hannibal explained.
“For…what? For framing me?” Will asked. “You’re apologizing for framing me for murder… by knitting sweaters for my dogs?”
“I thought what better way than to show I care about what you care about?”
“Fifty skeins of yarn,” Will repeated, as if catching up on the conversation backwards.
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “I was thinking blue stripes for Buster. I saw another terrier online wearing this pattern–”
“I think you’d better go,” Will said, waving backwards at the door.
Hannibal tried not to let the embarrassment and sting of hurt show on his face. He would NOT weep at being caught making dog clothes. “As you wish,” he said, clearing his throat.
He was halfway to his car when Will called his name.
“The dogs don’t even need sweaters,” Will said. “I mean… maybe Buster could use one, but not the others. Their hair is thick enough.”
“Are you saying I can knit the sweater for Buster?” Hannibal asked.
Will sighed. “Let me see the picture of the other terrier.”
Hannibal produced his phone again, sorted through some photos, then held it up.
“All right,” Will said after a few moments. “Blue stripes. But just the one sweater, right?”
“Quite right,” Hannibal said, already planning the scarves he would knit for them all.
- End -