When I was in my late teens, my elder sister acquired a sweet widdle kittums which evolved into a large, evil tom named "Puddy Tat". How many bleeding bites and scratches that #%^&@ inflicted on unfortunate souls who tried to befriend him, God only knows. When Sis and her houshold went on vacation, dear "Puddy" would be a guest on the old family farm, locked in the combination milking barn and chicken house, where he at least served to decimate sparrows that found their way in. If he ever tried to take on any of the leghorn chickens, they apparently held their own.

Now our rural area was plagued by Moorman livestock feed salesment. That's not a typo; I have no idea if the brand still exists. Get one of them on the farm, and you damn near had to shoot him and bury him in the back forty to get rid of him. One of 'em shows up one day and latches unto me, and I couldn't locate Dad to pass him off to. I told the guy I thought we had what we needed at the moment, but he insisted on following me into the barn to check.

There was an old refrigerator, for cooling separated cream, just inside the barn door. The salesman followed me in the door, and suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him break into a rather remarkable dance routine. Old Puddy had sailed off the top of the refrigerator, landed on the guy's shoulder, and ripped a strip out of the back of his shirt all the way down to his belt. The guy left soon, I never saw him again, and for one moment in time I had kind thougts for "Puddy Tat".