We could pet it but no men could go near it; to this day it just hates my uncle Donald, and he was the man who went and got it food from the local store. Poor thing still hates being picked up and later (let's say your barefoot watching TV) he will sit and then out of nowhere attack your foot and scratch it to pieces.  When I was little, Mum stepped on it by mistake, and it ripped her foot apart. I had to mop up blood and get bandaids.  She didn't go for stitches, though. Anyway I still love my cat even though it probably hates me, but oh well that's cats for you.