The beast June 15, 2005
This is my couch. 
I’ve had custody of it since 1981. My mother grew up with this couch. Grandma put this fabric on it probably about 1930. The beast is a good 6 feet long, each horse-hair cushion weighs at least 20 lbs (probably more, they’re the devil to move about), it’s good hard solid wood construction, and even after all these years is still sturdy enough that I can walk across the back of it to reach things (though where it’s currently positioned, that need is rare).
It’s a beast. It eats things. When I got it I found a playing card in it from a deck Mom remembers as a child, and a couple other things but I don’t recall at the moment what they were. Over the years it’s eaten grapes (roommate had dropped ‘em, never did find them), knitting needles, a pillow that I found after several years and a number of moves, and all sorts of things.
A couple of weeks ago I dropped a pair of tweezers, and the couch, beast that it is, decided they sounded yummy, and proceeded to claim them within its recesses. I cursed, and immediately jumped up, pulled back the corner of the cushion, and stood on the edge of the springs in order to get my arm down there to rescue said tweezers. I found them! Great. Now how do I get my arm (and the tweezers) back out? Gads. I pulled. Scraped a bit of skin, but my arm hardly budged. Curses. And laughter. Dear, the couch has eaten my arm! I would have loved to have seen the look on his face, but my back was toward him. I ended up readjusting my feet on the springs, and managed to wrench my arm (and the tweezers) back out from the dark recesses of the beast.
For a week afterwards I had a nasty, painful bruise on my forearm. The skin’s almost done healing. There’s just a bit of darkness there now to mark where my couch bit me…