When I first saw Boxey three years ago, she was huddled in a little crate outside the PetSmart on Ponce de Leon. I'd gone to buy light bulbs at Home Depot, but I left the stripmall parking lot with a dachshund accompanying my GE compact fluorescents. When we got home, she ran a victory lap around the house before settling on the couch, her paw poised on the armrest. Since then, she's been a tiny, ticking time bomb of scratching fury. Big moon eyes gaze from the floor, but once my hand stops scratching her chin, she unleashes her wrath through a furious frenzy of sharp, black claws. I managed to come clean tonight with only a three little marks on my right hand. Content with her post-pettin's handiwork, Boxey did another victory lap and went to have a lie-down in her basket.
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