As a going-away present, Amy gave me some sort of a paw. It’s mounted on a thin slice of mahogany, and beside it, written in pencil, is 1888. I thought it maybe belonged to a sloth, but the fingers are splayed. It’s like the hand of a Dr. Seuss character. Amy really is the best gift giver. “It’s beautiful,” I told her. “Every time I look at it, I’ll think of our paw.”
