Call me SUPER Crazy Cat Lady.

I rescued my beloved feline, Buddy, from — dun dun dun — CERTAIN DEATH this weekend.

My friend’s dog, “Puppy” — a sweet-as-can-be mutt, who may or may not have a drop or two of pit bull in her — joined us for a barbecue on Sunday. She was prancing merrily in the back yard until one of the children left the slider open.

“Puppy” ran inside to scope things out, which I’d normally be cool with if Buddy tolerated dogs, but he doesn’t tolerate dogs. He’s hated dogs since he was a tiny ball of fluff.

I found him July 5, 1998 yowling at the bottom of a manhole in Bremerton, WA.

Jerod and I had been fighting the night before, and I was stomping my way to the ferry terminal when I heard Buddy’s scratchy voice screaming from under the ground somewhere. I squatted  over a nearby manhole and pulled on the cover until it popped loose..

I poked my head in the hole to see what I could see, and a tiny pair of green eyes looked up at me from the darkness. I climbed down the ladder, wrapped the rat-sized kitten in my sweatshirt and headed back to Jerod’s house. He purred almost the whole way there. An encounter, near the end of our adventure, with an angry rottweiler and a pervy security guard made him angry.

He’s a big cat now — lots of gray, crazy fur everywhere and a scrappy-looking face.

He thinks he’s a tough guy, but he’s really a scrawny wuss beneath his heavy coat and attitude.

He growls at children and attacks dogs and wildlife like a rabid St. Bernard. I’ve rescued him from possums and raccoons — lucky for him, the only dogs he comes in contact with are wussier than he is.

I didn’t know “Puppy” that well, but she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Buddy’s irrational display of temper. She looked curious at first — “What’s the matter with you, Cat?”

She bounced around him a couple of times inviting him to play.

Buddy punched her in the nose several times and spit in her face.

“Puppy” was looking irritated and seemed to be asking — “You wanna piece of me?”

She had every right to fight back, but my 14-year-old cat didn’t stand a chance against her. I launched from the couch like a missile and threw myself over Buddy, who kept on advancing towards the dog, despite the person on top of his back.

“Puppy” was running circles around us — “You wanna go? Huh, huh? You wanna go?”

I wrapped my arms around Buddy, but he kept breaking free. He clawed my arms and chewed on my fingers, desperate for a piece of that dog. I heard people talking in the background.

“Do something,” I panted. No one seemed to hear me.

Buddy bit my hand again hard, and I almost lost hold of him.

“SOMEBODY!” I managed to scream. “GET THE DOG.”

I slowly rose to my feet when I heard “Puppy” padding towards the door. Buddy bolted down the hall and up the stairs leaving me shocked and bloody in my family room.

I’ve got two holes in my left thumb — one through my fingernail; I’ve got claw marks up and down my right arm; there’s a chunk of flesh missing from somewhere around my armpit; and I hurt my shoulder rolling around on the floor.

I’m pretty sure if Buddy was a person, he’d sue me for saving his life — that’s how grateful he was.