Lost in the Cushions: A Pocketknife's Tale

I am suffocating!

The plush yellow cushions with botanical designs are going to kill me. They are smothering, hot, and smelly! The scent of sweaty dogs and musky permeates the air.

Why can't Hank keep track of me?

One day, I overheard Hank talk about me to his wife, Daisy. I am one of his most important objects for him because he uses me daily. Yet, he puts me carelessly in his side pocket when in a hurry; I slip out quickly because of my sleek, smooth, trim body. I have slid onto the carpet, washing machine, and bottom of the car seat. Now, I found myself wedged between couch cushions.

When Hank received me, I was a stocking stuffer on Christmas six years ago. I am sharp-looking and can get the job done quickly.

Hank is a jack of all trades. He loves to get his hands dirty and fix things. My versatility makes it easy for Hank when he is out working.

"Daisy, have you seen my red pocket knife?" the deep male voice echoes from afar.

I am here, I want to shout! I slipped out between the couch cushion when you lay down to watch TV last night!!!

Ugh, his voice is fading away. Hank is looking but in all the wrong places. He needs to be looking here! I am in the family room, where he watches TV at night.

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter

Oh No! Not the dogs! All I need is to be found by one of them. Every time one of the dogs jumps up on the couch, these cushions shimmy me down into a dark cavern. Hank will never find me here.

Come on, Hank. Please hurry up and rescue me from this smothering experience. Could you not give up on me? We have so much more to do together and can create more memories.

I remember the time you needed a quick manly nail file; I was so happy to see your jagged nails down. Or the time when you were changing the lights on the faux Christmas wreath battery compartments. We were out in the cold, and you had me screw open the box so you could change the batteries. He always uses me to open his boxes; I am even the star at Christmas, cutting open toy boxes.

Umph!

What was that? No, No, No!

The cushions shake me downward. The earthy, woodsy smell of the dogs drifts down to me—a cold, wet nose presses against my top half. The dog has found me. No! Having the dog's attention is the worst-case scenario.

Digging sounds vibrate against the cushions, shaking me far down, down. The dog is trying to get to me. What kind of hell am I going to enter into? Forgotten forever at the bottom of the couch cushions or the dog's stinking tongue bathing me in slobber as if I were a dog bone?

"Hey, what are you doing, Buster?" Hanks' voice booms. I held my breath—a bright, stark light beams above me. The cushions fall away, along with Buster's wet tongue. Hank's warm hand envelopes me.

"There you are," Hank said. "Daisy, I found my pocketknife!" With a Whoosh, I slid into the back pocket of Hank's blue jeans. I was safe and sound with Hank until he lost me again.