This afternoon, I finished putting a new thingy on the door. (You know, the thingy? The thingy that allows the door to slowly close instead of trapping your ankle in the doorway?)

Anyway, I was all proud of myself because I basically MacGyvered the whole installation in 45 minutes, having bought a thingy that was shorter than the previous one, which meant lots of hammering of the dented old one and drilling for the new one. MacGyver probably could have done it in 3 minutes with a toothpick and a canteloupe, but all I had was myself, a bottle of Mt. Dew and the helpful assistance of two cats intent on eating the drill bit.

I tested the door and while I was busy congratulating myself on my door-fixing achievement, Abby snuck outside and started her months-planned escape. Once I wrangled her back inside, I decided that I would be generous and let both cats out in our fenced-in backyard.

I put Abby’s leash on her because if I don’t, she eats enough grass to barf up later in a giant Mountain of Slime. I didn’t put a leash on Sunny, because she thinks you’re trying to kill her when you do and will ram her head into the wall trying to escape.

Outside, Abby made a beeline for the grass before I tied her to an acceptable surface under the patio: half sun, half shade, full view of birds. I then watched Sunny meander around the yard, her tail twitching in nervousness and her occasional worried “mew?” my cue to reassure her she was OK.

When I saw her heading toward our prickly raspberry bush, I went to retrieve her. I picked her up and right then, a giant grackle flew by. Sunny, frightened to death, screeched and kicked at me viciously with her back paws. I set her down with an unkind word and looked at my shredded arm.

It was a horror map of destruction: two long, angry welted scratches down my bicep, with enough forks in them to warrant their own Robert Frost poem. And right in the crook of my arm: three deep gouges that were, to put it mildly, oozing copiously.

Everything’s going to scar. I already have two smaller ones on my upper arm, courtesy of Sunny and her Claws of Angry. I’m not so worried about the scratches scarring. But I am worried about the three gouges, seeing how they’re located exactly where a drug user would have needle marks.

Edited to Add:

Exhibit A

You can even see the bruising underneath the scratches already. I’ll have to put a moratorium on picking up Sunny about a month before the wedding.