When I was a wee lass of about 2 or 3 I had a wicked sense of humour. I most laughed myself silly at my grandparents' house when I would play and frolic with Tom, their cute little black and white cat.
Years later however, as an older child, I would visit them and every single time Tom would attack me in a screeching, frenetic claw-lashing assault. I would screech in reply and then we'd both flee in panic.
He scared the crap outta me.
For most of my childhood I believed cats hated me. Finally someone explained why Tom despised me with such a hissy and aggressive passion. Mum: 'You mean you don't remember?'
When I had earlier 'played' and 'frolicked' with Tom it was in the kitchen. (BTW, these are the grandparents with the bees and scary dinner table etiquette - now add to the list of hazards aggressive felines; and snakes, spiders, giant glaring horses (and some pretty imposing ponies... hey, I was little) AND the trampoline springs, all coiled and ready to bite.)
Anyway. My Nan's kitchen cupboards were a long way above the tiled floor and so my grandmother used the space to store crates of her potatoes and onions. Dark, airy, perfect. Apparently such conditions were also perfect, for Evil-Mini-Eleanor at least, for a darn good game.
Somehow, I would get Tom cornered under the cupboards and would giggle myself into delirious merriment as I threw potatoes and onions at him. Smack!
I loved it.
Used up a few of Tom's lives though. Poor Tom. Well, he got me back pretty good.
Cat karma baby, don't mess with it.