Too Close a Shave?

I knew it was going to be a weird day when Miss Cleo came in from her morning business dragging a torn sleeve. I threw it away, assuming one of the neighbor-kids had torn a shirt and tossed the evidence over the fence. But then the thumping started. At first I didn’t think much of it, because those kids are ALWAYS playing basketball in the street that goes along the side of our house, and usually I smile and think how cool it is that our neighborhood is safe enough for kids to DO that.

Except, whatever was thumping didn’t have that hollow basketball sound, but seemed more solid. And the shrieking doesn’t sound all that playful.

Fuzzy just got back a few minutes ago from his pre-trip haircut, and he’s bleeding, and he ran into the house faster than you’d ever think a geek could run.

“What happened?” I asked. “Did they cut you with the razor?”

“She tried to kill me,” he said.

“Fuzz, I know you hate hair cuts, but…”

“No,” he said. “They’re all pale. You know, like goths or something. And they smell weird. And she did this with the blade of the scissors, on purpose.”

“Um, right…”

“No, really,” he’s dabbing his head and frantic – and stoic!boy is never frantic. “She said I probably have a nice brain. I think she wanted to eat it.”

I put together the sounds from this morning, and my husband’s tale, and I nod. “But you made it home, right? So we’re good, and you’re safe.” I pause, then add, “Please tell me you didn’t tip her?”

But he doesn’t answer. He’s busy with his nose buried in the fur on top of Miss Cleo’s head.


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