Well, to a four year old, they’re all soft, warm, and cuddly, especially Runt Runt, the micro-cat. They’re like Tribbles. Thing is, Runt Runt compensates for her (lack of) size with her own defensive mechanism. She’s like a small nuclear bomb. Approach her the wrong way, she goes full Tasmanian Devil on you. A whirling dervish of claws and teeth. None of the other cats mess with her. They know better. Connie and I are the only ones who can touch her with impunity. Everyone else sees justice meted out and it usually involves scratches, pain, and possible bloodshed. LOLOL!
HAHAHAHA!!! Yep! I understand.