When I took Mini Scaredy to the vet to get her fixed when she was 2 years old, she was a holy terror for the vets to deal with. She hissed at and slashed at any of the vets who tried to get near her. And she drew blood with her razor sharp claws at the vets that tried to deal with her (she’s a feral cat — she’s a wild animal — she thought they were trying to kill her and was ready to fight to the death to protect herself).
The vets named her “Elohssa.” That was the name-tag they had posted on her little cage that they kept her in. I asked the vets why they named her that. They said “It’s Asshole spelled backwards.” Ha ha. They were pissed because she slashed them with her claws every time they tried to deal with her.
When I showed up at the clinic to take Mini Scaredy back to the Berkeley hills after the vets had fixed her, she was cowering in the darkness in the back of her cage. She had been holed up and confined there for the last 10 days. And she was completely freaked out. She had lost her freedom and had no idea what was going on. She thought they were gonna kill her.
“It’s OK, baby,” I said when I saw her there.
The vet said. “She recognizes your voice. She hisses at everyone else that tries to talk to her.”