Last year Mother adopted a cat on a whim.

In October, a little grey kitten appeared in our home. In the beginning, the creature was too tiny to get onto any surface higher than 30 centimetres. Just a month with us, and it was climbing all over the house just like Mr Spider Man. It could even nap comfortably on top of the fridge or the air-conditioner.

It was the beginning of all the havoc Pussy the Devil has wrought. If the feline was around and you just turned away from it, it would leap over like a lightning bolt and leave some scratches on your ankle. It seemed that Pussy was practising its hunting skills. Mother tried to beat it after Pussy’s attack, but it made no big difference to its mischief. Mother’s attempt to punish Pussy only helped the animal acquire a new skill—to escape by hiding under the sofa.

Warfare between Pussy and us has been waged with increasing vehemence since its first attacks. Three months of conflict have seen us harvesting more and more scratches and Pussy’s prowess at maddening us becoming even more formidable. Mother got so desperate that she even wanted to dispose of the beast. On second thoughts, however, she refrained from taking the step because it would be too cruel.

Countless failures forced me to rack my brains for a solution. I tried all kinds of ways but to no avail. One day, having washed my hands in the toilet, I came out only to be stared at by Pussy. My hands still wet, I sprinkled drops of water over Pussy. It got so scared that it ran for its life. It suddenly dawned on me that cats fear water. After my discovery, I tried the trick a couple of times. It worked like a charm.

Now whenever I come out of the toilet with a wicked smile on my face, hands shaking a bit, Pussy will dart away as if a real monster were chasing it. Thank goodness—no more feline scratches on me, although Pussy still has other dirty tricks up its sleeve.