Meet Fisel, the attack cat. When I married "she who must be obeyed", Fisel was the dowry. She has in her sixteen or so years backed many a cowering adult into a corner. I think it must have something to do with the name, like it incurred the spirit of a middle eastern potentate whose wrath was easily roused. After soliciting attention and receiving the obligatory stroking and pampering her daggerlike claws will suddenly leave slight gashes on the poffered hand or arm. She's really a sweetie. Really.
It took a while for her to warm up to me. It was after several incidents of her arched back, loud hissing and doing the dagger thing and my responding grabbing whatever was at hand and flinging it in her general direction that we came to terms. Now she treats me with the same disdain as anyone else she tolerates. That's good because there are people she has known for years who still get the dagger routine and who I guess never caught on to the fling something trick.
Until our recent move to the mountains she never left the house. I guess when telling folks, "we're looking for a retirement home for our cat", she overheard and thought, "great, it's the outdoor life for me". After thoroughly inspecting the deck she ventured gingerly onto the gravel drive. "Ouch, these stones hurt my little paws, I think I'll take this a little slow". Fisel toughens up fast, now it's across the drive and into the woods after the chipmunks.
A while back she decided that SWMBO and I should get up at first light. Into the bedroom she would plod and literally try to say, "Get up". It was not a "meow", it was creepy. This followed by, "FISEL, GET OUT!" went on for several weeks. It was time to switch tactics... Crawl quietly onto the bed until right next to the ears and then purr, loudly. It worked, after about a month I have been programmed to wake up and fall out of bed long before I want.