I once owned an orange kitten who liked to bite my hand. He would be lying in my lap, purring as I petted him, and then—for no reason at all—he’d turn his head and bite me. I’ve owned cats off and on most of my life, but Gibson was the only one that bit me. He was also the only male I’d ever known. Were they love bites—a blend of affection, enthusiasm, and testosterone? Maybe, but I’d been to urgent care once from an infected cat bite, so I flicked my finger against his nose. He stopped and drew back, ears flattened. This small, supercharged kitten taught me that physically reprimanding an animal can backfire.