I have a deep laceration down the inside of my left index finger and it’s still pretty fresh, so typing this is a dicey proposition. I’m going to give it my best shot, but if one of the upcoming sentences trails off with an “aarrrrgghhhhh…” you’ll know why.

I’ve actually got three lacerations on my left index finger, now that I’m looking at it. Just the one is deep and painful enough that can feel it every time my finger lands on a key, though. The other two are days old and barely broke the surface.

Taking stock even further, there’s another cut on the knuckle of my left middle finger, a stab wound on my right index finger, and two lacerations on the outside of my right pinky. These were all a gift from the otherwise enjoyable company of the kitten we invited into our home a month and a half ago. He’s a lot of fun to play with, because when we’re playing I can avoid his claws. It’s when he comes out of nowhere that I end up bleeding and howling in pain.

Tying my shoes in the morning was his favorite time to ambush me. I would usually sit on the sofa to put my shoes on and he would be waiting under the coffee table. The first time he did that, I thought it was funny, but only because he didn’t draw blood. The second time was pretty painful. Those claws are sharp as ginsu knives. There hasn’t been a third time because I don’t put my shoes on while sitting anywhere near the coffee table or any other hiding places now.

He launches his second most effective ambush from under the kitchen drawer where I stack up the Pyrex bowls, bolting out from under cover of the table or from behind the fridge just as I’m opening it up. Our last encounter was so devastating that I leave him locked up in another room while I’m unloading the dishwasher.

He’s going to grow out of this behavior some day. I’m not going to miss it for a second.

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