It was a gift. From Australia. Bought at the airport, that place of time to kill and poor commercial decisions. But I am not complaining. A gift, as it may or may not say in the Bhagavad Gita, is a love-token. And we all get too few tokens of love. Indeed, we all get too little love.
One end of the thing is a wooden handle, though that overstates it. It's a cheap rod, a dowel, perhaps half an inch in diameter, smooth but not varnished, nor in any way formed to fit a hand. But I've only noticed the inadequacy of the handle now that I've needed to describe it. All my attention has been at the business end.
The whole thing is a little over a foot long. After about four inches the dowel disappears into a sleeve of furry skin. The fur is short and smooth and lightly mottled. You wouldn't call it luxurious. It does not induce the urge to stroke it. But it is fur, functional, short, shiny fur.
The underside reveals that the fur is sewn tightly around the dowel with a thick thread that seems close to being sinew. There are hints of prehistory here, deliberately, I suspect.
The wooden rod within the sheath of furry skin is like a narrow and inflexible wrist, and like all wrists it ends in a hand. The hand has five digits, but no opposing thumb. The digits are shorter than yours or mine but they are of the same design, with knuckles and joints. The nails, however, have extended into claws, hardened, thickened and pointed, practical things for use in either attack or defence. You would not want to be raked by them. (Though, as it happens, that's the purpose for which they're being sold.)