So we used to have this tortoiseshell cat named Pipistrelle.  Pippi was a rescue who had developed a life-long taste for pizza crusts from her homeless time.  She had ragged frozen-off ear tips (knew it was from frost not fights because the tips fell off on the floor shortly after we got her). She was a friendly cat, not in your face lovey but was usually happy to be petted or held and if I was really stressed she would lay out on my chest.  But she had some traits I, rightly or wrongly, associate with torties.

If you did something that threatened her, Pippi would suddenly go into street-punk mode like turning on a light switch.  Hissing, claws, the whole bit, or whole bite if you prefer.  Sometimes she would win or if it was important enough, like a thermometer up the butt at the vet, we would win.  But importantly, as a survivor street punk,  at the end of the incident, it was over and life went on.

She taught me it is important to understand others baggage, as best you can, and to deal with it, as best you can. And she taught me that some of my baggage is not being able to let things go.  But at least with her, I learned that once the claws were retracted, life goes on.