Woozy Waggies: Part One

Behold the Woozy Waggie.

I did not name it. I did agree to make it.

"You can sew, right?"

Right.

"How hard would it be to make a stuffed animal? I have the pattern (wheedle, wheedle, wheedle)."

Well, let's see. Does it have bound buttonholes? Neck facings? Flat-felled seams? An undercollar, two-piece sleeves, a gusset?

I didn't think so. Sure, send it along.

The pattern arrives. I spend 10 minutes staring at the pattern-cum-instruction sheet, wondering how in God's green earth this is all going to come together. How do these weirdly-shaped hind leg and fore leg pieces become the slab-like paw structure? Are the round sole pieces simply decorative patches? Why does the face look so small? Why don't I simply turn the page over and realize I'm looking at two different patterns?

Oops. Ha ha. Along with Scotty is the woeful Scottie, who looks like she's about to be scolded for barfing on the satin bedspread again.

Now it makes more sense. Still, though, these aren't instructions from the Big 4. "Join J of rear feet to J of rear legs, then K of rear feet to K of body, then L of rear feet to L of under body..."

No diagrams, no illustrations.

I think it's best to cull the scrap pile for Scotty.

And yet, how hard can it be? It's a child's toy, a stuffed dog. I taught myself to build cabinets based on the laughable notion that making cupboards isn't much different from making a blouse (measure, cut, construct). If I can make drawers — nice drawers! — I can make Scotty.

Sure can.

Next up: Tracing the pattern, cutting the pieces