My Thanksgiving Day began around 4:30 in the morning when the cat jumped onto the bed and caught my left index finger with his claw just right, drawing blood.
I was already awake, having opened my eyes a few minutes before, but it still surprised the hell out of me.
A day later, the cut on my finger still hurts. I’m probably a day or two away from a full-blown case of cat scratch fever, which is, by the way, a real thing.
And not just the 1977 Ted Nugent song by the same name. It’s a real infectious illness, too.
As I lay in the dark, clenching my fist to stanch the bleeding (or staunch the bleeding, as both are correct and the subject of linguistic battles between people who enjoy such things), Charlie’s knee crashed into my lip, splitting it open and drawing blood.
He had suffered a nightmare in the middle of the night and was lying beside our bed in a sleeping bag. When he heard me cry out, he assumed that I had gotten out of bed and moved quickly to take my place.
In the dark, he couldn’t see me, so as he jumped onto the bed (because that’s how he climbs onto every bed), he landed on my face, knee first. I cried out for a second time, causing him to cry out as well before apologizing to me about one thousand times.
A moment earlier, I had opened my eyes on an early Thanksgiving morning, feeling well-rested and ready to take on the day.
Now I was hunched over the bathroom sink as blood dripped from my finger and lip.
As far as I could tell, Elysha slept through it all.
Knowing how things tend to happen in sets of three, I was sure that I would slice off my pinkie finger while carving the turkey later that day, but thankfully, I managed to avoid being wounded for the third time.
The Patriots later lost to the Minnesota Vikings, which hurt more than both wounds combined, but that was an emotional pain. Deeper and longer lasting, but it didn’t draw any actual blood.
No real danger of infection.
I hope your Thanksgiving was more pain-free than mine.
