The magical properties of household dryer lint

I've been hording dryer lint.
(But would never consider keeping belly-button lint, because that is gross).
After a load of cottons, I keep the lint.
Ball it up.
Stuff it in a 35mm film canister (yes, they still exist).

My mistake? Zippy's Disease.
I got in a rush.

I broke down and bought a new quilt (it's very nice, thank you, greens and browns and it's a Woolrich from Target).
It had this industrial smell to it. New fabric. I dunno. It didn't smell like "home."
So I washed it.
And dried it.
Man, what beautiful lint. Fluffy and clean and white.

In the backcountry, dryer lint is the tits.
For starting fires. A little dryer lint, a little tinder, a couple of sparks from a magnesium fire starter and you've got a warming fire.
So I collect the good stuff. I keep a little on hand, in the canister, to light my fires.
Backcountry camping is upon us in NorCal.
I hate being unprepared.

But Zippy's got the best of me Sunday night.
I balled the quilt lint up, but didn't take the time to get out the film canister.
I plopped it on the kitchen counter, next to the Mason jar where my pocket change goes and the wicker basket where I keep the onions and potatoes.

Dryer lint has many, many magical qualities, I've come to learn.
Expandability being the most amazing of its properties.
Tuesday, Indy the tabby cat found my little ball of lint.
The strip, when pulled from the dryer, measured 10 inches by 2 inches.
In ball form, it was the size of a cherry tomato.

I have never picked so much lint from so many places and so widespread as to make me get the broom and sweep three rooms of my house.
And there she was the entire time, curled up on her chair, the remnants of my fuzzy ball of dryer lint tucked under her chin.
Rendered unusable.
It was full of cat hair.

Back to the dryer.