Chapo, a tiny ball of grey fur, came home in a brown wicker basket. He spent more and more time outside as he grew older but he was allowed inside until my “stepdad” banished him outside permanently. After that, I swear to Karma, that cat would run inside every chance he got and head straight to that man’s closet to pee on his shoes!

He was a big cat with chubby cheeks. We hardly saw him throughout the day but he would jump onto the kitchen window ledge about a millisecond after the electric can opener whirred. I can’t prove it but I’m pretty sure there were MANY baby Chapos running around the neighborhood.

I was looking out of our sliding glass door and saw Chapo napping under the shade of a Mulberry tree in the backyard. I must have been around 16 years old so I certainly should have known better but the consequence of what I did next didn’t even occur to me.

I went out the front door, leaving it open so he wouldn’t hear it click shut. I creeped around to the side gate and spent a disgusting amount of time lifting the horseshoe shaped latch, then several minutes more lowering it after I’d pulled the gate open.

I’m telling you — I put a lot of effort into this diabolical idea.

I have never been more ninja than I was on the day I tip-toed the approximately 40 feet from the gate to the tree, all while stifling my evil giggle. I arrived and looked down at the peacefully slumbering feline. I slowly bent down and grabbed his belly while, at the same time, giving my best impression of a hissing cat.

I learned where the expression “cat-like reflexes” came from that day.

It all happened so fast; yet, seemingly, in super slow motion. Chapo, like a fur tornado, twisted several different segments of his body, similar to a Rubick’s Cube, until he was in the perfect position to reach up with his two arms, claws extended. His toothy hiss was jarring and loud as his talons left blood red streaks from my elbow to my wrist. At the end of the vicious attack, I saw his eyes finally focus and the recognition register on his angry face. He was justifiably mortified and immediately retracted his Freddy Krueger blades.

I pulled my throbbing arm back and cradled it as I ran back past the open gate, around the house, and back through the open front door.

I administered the required first aid to stop the bleeding on no less than 8 arm-length scratches. The peroxide bubbled and burned. It took weeks to heal and I barely escaped lifelong scarring.

Worth it!