Nine years old, holding my hands high, surrendering, waving each finger. "Tracey," my teacher says, "is a bad cat."

I have grabbed Stephen Sutherland during dodge ball, dug my nails into the flesh of his upper arm and positioned the mewling Stephen in front of me as a shield. He is killed instantly. Weeps. Has ten little half-moons of evidence and I am caught.

It's not that I am cruel -- but I hate to lose at dodge ball.