Puffball The Terrible

We have a cat, a savage attack cat, named Puffball. Darn cat should be working for the Red Cross because he generates plenty of blood, most of it from my legs or arms. He doesn’t drink the blood he spills, so he’s no vampire. This cat just loves to puncture skin.

I’ve saved this cat’s life four times in the 16 years we’ve had him. I’ll get into that in a moment but it is important to note that the individuals who initially begged us to keep this cat, our kids, no longer live here. Thus my wife and I are stuck with a feline terrorist, while the cat’s sponsors are free to gallivant around the country without concerns.

Funny how things turn out.

Look into the eyes of a skin-shredder.

I was working away from home for a few months back in 1993 when I was notified that my wife and kids had found a kitten in or near our backyard. They took it in, cleaned it with anti-flea soap and began nursing it toward good health. I got hit with the traditional, “Can we keep it,” barrage and, feeling guilty about being so far from home for extended periods, I weakened and said, “Okay.” We already had pets, but somehow we ended up keeping another one. We registered the cat with the city, took him to the vet and generally treated him very well. This was his life-saving experience #1.

My long-distance working situation ended about five months later and I came home to discover the new cat had a game it liked to play. He’d sit on the hidden side of a doorway at the end of a hall and suddenly attack the lower extremity of any human passing through the portal into the middle room of the house. He'd bite and scratch until said human found a way to detach himself or herself from the attacking beast. This frequently resulted in spilled blood, torn stockings, ruined socks and ripped pants. A few times I attempted to clear my path by throwing a cat toy through the door, hoping for a distraction that would clear the way for a safe passage. No chance. This cat was after human flesh.

I wanted to get rid of the cat. My scars never had time to heal before the next attack by our so-called domesticated pet. I was concerned about extended loss of blood. I was afraid to go to the beach for fear of attracting every shark within thousands of miles, whether I went in the water or not. Every moment spent ambulating from one spot to another in the house was an invitation to a new vicious attack and another bloodletting.

I confronted my wife with the need to rid ourselves of this criminally insane cat. “My socks and pants have blood stains,” I gripped. My wife is a loving wife. She cares for me when I am sick. Heck, I was on crutches when we started dating. When our children were growing up, she mothered with extraordinary love and wisdom. So, when I firmly explained that Puffball The Terrible had to go, my wife sweetly said, “Go ahead if you want to. But you have to tell the kids.”

This was life-saving experience #2 for the cat.

Time passed and blood flowed. Our son graduated from high school in 2000 and bolted for the comparative safety of life in the United States Air Force. A little more than a year later, our nation was at war. Sean spent five years on active duty and three more in the Air Force National Guard. He spent time in Korea and Iraq and never got a scratch. I wish I could say the same.

Finally, the bleeding reached the point where my wife and daughter agreed something had to be done and the cat became an outside cat. We put him in the garage at night to protect the general public. Our wounds began to heal and this decision was life-saving experience #3 for Puffball.

We rented the same house for a dozen years before the homeowner decided to sell the place. That meant we had to move. The new landlord would not allow cats in the house, which I took to be my salvation from the reign of terror I’d lived with all those years. Even as an outdoor cat, Puffball could inflict damage. Walking to the car had become a challenge.

Unfortunately, Puffball still had Amy and Regan in his corner. He lives in the garage today, usually sleeping on top of my beloved Mustang convertible. This was life-saving experience #4 for Puffball.

We discovered the house we moved to had rats in the walls and we hoped Puffball might catch a few in the garage, given his tendency toward ambush. No such luck. Puffball will happily attack any passing human, but has no hard feeling toward rats. Or gophers.

So there it is. I’ve saved that cat’s life four times now and here’s what really bothers me: In all that time, Puffball has never once thanked me.

But I’ll thank you: Thanks for reading.