As I remember, I walked out of our bedroom to see our topic standing in the little dining room/hall space area grimacing with a threatening stare, holding the knife threateningly, with a patch of several superficial cuts, or perhaps better described as scratches. And yes, because they were buried under this fucker's belly hair and they hadn't yet showered, I first buzzed the hair from that patch to clean it with some isopropyl alcohol and used some to sanitize the knife before I'd confiscated it for the remainder of their godawful stay.