That Damn Cat
When I was a young lad, about four or five, I was attacked by a cat. A declawed one, at that, and it traumatized me. Fast-forward 16 years, and I own my very first cat. A Siamese I named “Punk-Ass” as a homage to my father and mother’s Siamese cat “Punk-Ass Feo”, but then changed the name to “Ho” because while watching Jerry Springer I laughed and said “stupid Ho” to the TV and my cat came to me. She would answer to Ho, but not Punk, Punk-ass, or anything else, so it just stuck. Anyways, how, you may ask, did I, an overfed long-haired gnome (shouts out Eric Burdon) go from fearing felines due to a traumatic experience with a boxing kitty, to giving these animals the highest pedestal I can by accepting them as my favorite animal of all time? To answer that question, I really don’t know, that’s a good question for another piece. But let me take you back to the time a declawed cat caused me to fear cats more than death itself.