Cat Mauling

I slashed. Chapman cried out. My claws were lacerating him, tearing furrows in his arms and hands.

He grabbed me around the middle. The cat in me hated being grabbed that way. Hated it a lot.

I brought my teeth into it. I was a ten-pound bundle of lightning-fast claws and teeth. Chapman's hands looked like raw hamburger.

"A magnificent animal!" Visser Three commented. "Twist it around. Hold it with your forearm. That's right."

I did a lot of damage. Believe me, Chapman got hurt. But in the end, no matter how tough I was, I was just ten pounds of killer. Chapman was
about eighteen times bigger.

He got his forearm around my chest. He had me pressed back against his chest. My front legs were pinned. With his other arm he managed to grab my hind legs.

All I could do was bite.

I bit. I bit again and again. But although I could hurt him, I couldn't kill him. I couldn't stop him. His fear of Visser Three was greater than the pain I was causing.