My cat's name is Zachary Binx, and I know for a fact he could kick my ass in a fight. His claws are daggers. They are needle sharp and feather light and designed to ensnare and then shred anything his long, quick arms can snatch. He is fast; he is a predator.
But he has no idea, because his environment suggests otherwise. He's artificially coerced by domestication to assume that his survival is dependent on me. He is designed to survive on his own, but his cage suggests otherwise.
So he contents himself to the role of the housecat, sitting on the windowsill, feeling dull pangs of inexplicable deja vu as he watches the sparrows bathe in the dirt outside.