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"What is the most powerful unarmed strike in your arsenal right now?" Mr. Hattori quizzed me.

I scrunched my face. So many to choose from... After a few seconds I replied, "The shako-ken claw strike. Applied properly, my claws can rip through soft flesh to cause extreme pain or disable limbs by tearing through muscles and tendons. In dire need, I can use it to slit the throat of an attacker."

"Wrong," the old fox said, shaking his head. "Your most powerful strike is the one situation calls for. What if attacker is wearing thick leather jacket? Your shako-ken strike cannot injure him noticeably, if at all. Denim jeans also hard to cut through."

I frowned. As usual, he was right. So much for all that recitation. "So in that case, I would use the fudo-ken clenched fist or the shuto sword-paw technique with claws sheathed for blunt strikes, right?"

"Only if you are aiming for joints, or the neck if you use the shuto. Many of these gang members of The Pack will be bigger and stronger than you; you cannot hope to overpower them. You must discover and exploit each opponent's weakness. There is often weakness in fighting style. Swinging too wide, not being properly balanced, overextending their reach, relying on their fists or feet too much--"

"But how am I supposed to get all that while I'm busy trying to stay alive??"

"This is only for weakness in fighting," Mr. Hattori said with a chuckle. "Do not forget physical weakness, little doraneko. Watch the way they step, how they hold their body, turn their head, how high or low they hold arms... This can be discovered before fight even begins. Once you gain enough experience, you will be able to tell these things with just a glance, but for now, you take as much time as you need hiding in shadows to observe them."

I nodded slowly. I knew I'd probably forget half of this in an hour, but hopefully my continued training would cement these new ideas in my mind. It didn't seem the training had started that long ago, but it had already been weeks, maybe even a month or two. I was losing track of time as I was enveloped in this entirely new world of stealth and subterfuge. The philosophies I was being fed were completely different from those I had learned on the streets, but somehow they made sense. Instead of how to punch harder in a fight, I was learning how to avoid fights completely, or win them before they even begin. I was learning how to use items I'd commonly find in an alleyway as formidable weapons, handled with much more finesse than mindless swinging. I was learning how to disarm an opponent wielding a gun, and how to be where the bullet wasn't. I was learning how to be quicker than the eye, and more cunning than ever before.

Of course, it didn't start that way. The physical training only started after my broken arm was sufficiently healed, which was three agonizing weeks after Mr. Hattori told me he would teach me in the ninja ways. I had been ready to start training that very day, but that old fox insisted I wait. In the mean time, he told me countless tales of the great deeds of ninja of the past. I would have raced through every book, scroll, and scrap of paper of ninja lore and techniques he owned, if they weren't all in Japanese. So I had to hear the stories one at a time in the old fox's slightly-broken English. Though they didn't always make sense (in grammar or in moral of the story), it gave me time to digest them individually and search them for meaning.

During this time Mr. Hattori also taught me to be constantly aware of everything in my surroundings. Every morning when I walked into the small, dated dining room, he would ask me random questions like how many flowers were in the vase in my bedroom, how many pillows were in the training room I walked through on the way to eat (these numbers sometimes mysteriously changed overnight), or what side of the door the doorknob to the garage was. I was skeptical as to this training method at first, but over time I started to notice the benefits: my eyes started scanning every area I entered for anything out of the ordinary, completely out of habit. Soon Mr. Hattori would simply ask if I had noticed anything strange on my way to the table, and I would tell him the trash can was facing the other way or that the alarm clock was set to PM instead of AM or (my favorite) that his shoe was untied. He fell for that one more times than he'd like to admit.

The day Mr. Hattori declared my arm "good enough," we began training. But before I was allowed to learn any of the cool stuff like kicks and swords and invisibility, he said I had to learn how to tumble. Yeah, like little cheerleaders, minus the double-back-handspring-jump-thing or whatever it's called. He said that would come with time, though. For now, I learned how to duck and roll in any direction, how to drop to the ground quickly, how to do short lateral hops, and how to not hurt myself doing any of those.

After all this (in my opinion) beating around the bush, he finally started teaching me unarmed self-defense tactics. A surprising amount of the fighting techniques I learned on the streets transferred over--this taijutsu stuff was brutal. Brutal, yet much more refined than swinging a right hook. The style was much more reactive than active. Many of the techniques involved waiting to see how your opponent would attack and then "going with the flow" to use their momentum or their posturing to completely screw them over. I learned that there were more ways to make a fist with your paw than just curling up your fingers (which Mr. Hattori called the fudo-ken fist). There was the shikan-ken, where you only curled your last two finger joints, effectively extending your knuckles. Then there was the boshi-ken, where your thumb is the part that strikes. There was also the shut "sword-paw strike," for which your straightened fingers are angled downward about 45 degrees, and you strike with your fingertips. And finally, my personal favorite: the shako-ken claw strike.

Every strike had a different purpose and a different target area on the body. Some were for causing blunt force trauma, some were for breaking small fragile areas like the solar plexus, and others were for pinching nerves and hitting pressure points. Of course, I got to experience the effects of almost every one personally. Every night I went to bed more sore and bruised than the previous night. Stretching was added to our morning routine to get my body back into usable shape and to keep me limber and flexible. Being feline, the latter is in my nature.

Every day I practiced striking rolled-up straw mats while ducking and weaving, or doing quick tumbling techniques to strike at an opening. Mr. Hattori would often spar with me to show me what I needed to change in my technique. This could be anything from a reminder to stay light on my feet to learning the subtle difference in the angle I held my arms out to needing to put my center of gravity lower to the ground to generate more power in my strikes (and to stay lower than people tend to look). It was really a workout; I think I sweated more in those few weeks than I had in all my years combined. But my efforts were well rewarded. I was starting to become more well-toned (and I started developing a killer '6-pack'). The old fox chastised me about vanity, but even he admitted I was looking stronger every day.

Later on, kicks and weapons were added to the sparring routines. I learned to use every part of my body to fight, from my head to my elbows to my knees to my tail. I discovered that not only was my long tail good for keeping balance, but it could also serve as a distraction if I spun and brushed my enemy's face with it, making them jerk back in surprise, which can open up all sorts of opportunities to kick their asses.

I hadn't been outside since the night before I wound up in Mr. Hattori's apartment, since that night I lost my best friend and my chance to end the reign of The Pack once and for all. I wanted to feel the night air ruffle my fur again, I wanted to feel the rain, and I wanted to finally use my new powers to take the fight to The Pack. But the old fox insisted I be patient. He told me it wasn't safe for me to be on the streets of New Lou yet. The gang had to forget about me completely before I could once more brave the darkness. Otherwise they would be looking for me, and get the jump on me before I could do the same to them. As far as they knew, Mr. Hattori told me, I had (somehow) given them the slip in the alleys, and could be waiting for the perfect time to strike. That all made sense, but... the thugs who were chasing me, wouldn't they have heard me get hit by Mr. Hattori's car? That whole night still puzzled me, but I had more important things to think about.

To get past all of The Boss' forces, I would have to do more than fight my way through. To this end Mr. Hattori taught me some practical psychology: how to trick your opponent into doing your bidding, how to identify his mental weaknesses, and how to use those against him. He also showed me how to use disguises to pass groups of Pack members unnoticed. "If they are looking for young ninja leopard, they will not pay attention to old dog shuffling down the sidewalk," he told me. And of course, no ninja training would be complete without learning how to jump silently from rooftop to rooftop and quietly slipping in through windows. The former I learned via Mr. Hattori setting up tables in the dojo for me to hop across without making sound. In the dark. And he would often loosen or remove screws on the underside to make them squeakier, to keep things interesting. As for going through windows... Well, there was no good way to do that inside his apartment, so he showed me how to lockpick instead.

Every day I learned something new. Every day I trained. Until...

I woke up in my small room just off the dojo room and immediately surveyed my surroundings out of habit. Nothing out of place. The clock read 6:47. Just enough time to stretch and change into new clothes before training. I did a big back-arching feline stretch and yawned, and began stretching all my major muscle groups. I felt awake and refreshed. I grabbed some pants and a clean white shirt and put them on after briefly checking myself out in the mirror. Just as the clock read 7:00, I opened the door, ready to eat and begin cleaning up the mess we had left in the dojo last night (tables, straw mats, pieces of pipe, trash cans, anything we could get our paws on that might be found on the street).

A lightly-decorated Christmas tree sat in the middle of the spotless room.

"What the..." I stepped closer to investigate. It was a small, artificial thing, with (after a quick subconscious count) 23 ornaments and a cheap-looking star on top. It was still much nicer than the piece of crap tree they used to put up at St. Mary's. I looked down and saw three presents neatly wrapped in newspaper lying underneath. With my name on them.

I chuckled. "Mr. Hattori, I think I know what's different about this room this morning," I called. "I should hope so," he said, putting a paw on my shoulder.

I must have jumped five feet straight up. He had been standing right next to my door the whole time. I gave him a glare, but quickly understood the lesson. "Soooo, the lesson here is to not let strange things distract you from being conscious of your surroundings?"

"That, and that it is Christmas morning."

My eyes widened. How could that be? I knew I had been at Mr. Hattori's apartment for a while, but if what he said was true, I had stayed there for about eight months. I had no idea so much time had passed. I was about to apologize for mooching off him for so long, but he patted me on the back and said, "Come, these presents for you."

Eight months ago I would have torn right into them without a second thought, but now I felt guilty just looking at the presents. Mr. Hattori had already given me so much, between the training, tending to my wounds, food, a place to stay, and putting up with my crap for so long. I tried again to say something about this to him, but he smiled and ordered, "Start with that one first." I sighed and obeyed.

It was a lumpy, vaguely cube-shaped package. Year after year of getting this very thing under the tree at the orphanage taught me that it was undoubtedly a stack of clothes. I opened it up slowly, savoring the moment despite having a pretty good idea of what was inside.

It was. My own ninja clothes. I held them up in the light to see them better. It wasn't the stereotypical jet-black gi ninja are depicted wearing: they consisted of a navy blue hoodie and long dark blue cargo pants. These would easily let me blend in with the night, as well as walk the streets without looking out of place. Underneath was a black long-sleeved turtleneck undershirt, black tennis shoes, and a long wide black scarf perfect for covering my muzzle with. They were perfect.

"This is a very generous gift," I told him, "you didn't have to go to all that trouble!"

"It was my pleasure," he replied with a smile. "Please, take them."

I folded them up carefully and placed them back on top of their package. At Mr. Hattori's motioning, I began opening the second one with as much care.

A flat black cylinder, three feet long and about an inch and a half wide lay inside. I picked it up with deliberation and weighed it in my paws. It was heavy enough that it must have been made out of solid wood. It was a hanbo staff: half the length of the long bo staff and excellent for grappling and striking. It was one of my favorite weapons to train with, and I finally had one I could call my own.

"Really, Mr. Hattori, you're spoiling me," I said with a wry smile.

"It is the least I could do. Please, open last one."

It was a flat, roughly square-shaped piece wrapped like an envelope. At first I thought it might be a set of shuriken, but when I picked it up it hardly weighed anything. I slid a claw underneath the flap and opened it.

It was Brad. And me. On one of those instant-photo pictures, that looked like it had been folded in half one too many times. But its condition didn't matter to me. In it we both looked so young, though I remember the picture was only taken about a year before we left the orphanage. In the picture we both had an arm around the other's shoulder, both smiling and giving a thumbs-up to the camera.

"I went to St. Mary's and made some inquiries about you and your black lab friend there," Mr. Hattori told me. "They don't keep very good records there, but they did have that."

I stood up and hugged the old fox hard. Screw Japanese gift-receiving formalities. This was the best gift ever.

He chuckled and hugged be back. "This is so you remember what you are fighting for."

"I could never forget."