You know my friend. I've written about him before. He’s not exactly the cuddly, curl-up-in-your-lap type. In fact, he’s not even sure he wants me touching him. He’s a stray, half-wild cat named Cosmo, and our relationship is built mostly on trust, patience, and a twice-daily food delivery service.

Cosmo appears every morning and evening like clockwork. At 6 a.m., he sits on the stone path beneath my second-story bedroom window, staring up at me. He knows I’m there. He knows I’m supposed to close the window. He also knows I’m often late.

This irritates him.

I can feel his judgment from the ground below.

When I finally drag myself out of bed and close the window, Cosmo leaps onto the back porch steps to give me his official review. It usually begins with a hiss. He’s a tough guy, after all. A little battered. A little battle-worn. He looks like he’s had a few adventures that didn’t go exactly his way.

But then, as I’ve mentioned in a previous column, I believe Cosmo has what I call kitty Tourette’s. After his intimidating hiss, he immediately follows it with a shy little meow, as if he’s embarrassed by his own outburst.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. I’m just a cat with a reputation to maintain.”

I would love to help him. I really would. I’d like to get him checked out, make sure he’s healthy, maybe give him a little pampering. But Cosmo will have none of it. He is nobody’s patient. Nobody’s project. He is an independent fellow who has made it very clear that our arrangement is strictly business.

I provide food.

He tolerates my existence.

Lately, I’ve come to believe Cosmo sees me as a giant, awkward cat. And honestly, I can’t blame him.

I was recently told by a chiropractor that I was born with one leg shorter than the other, which would explain my recent limp. Why I didn’t limp all my life is a mystery, but apparently my body has been quietly compensating for decades and has finally decided to give up.

So, there I am every morning, carrying Cosmo’s food, trying to navigate the back porch like a graceful creature. Unfortunately, grace is not always available before coffee.

I carefully lower myself toward his level, attempting to place his dish on the ground without alarming him. But with my uneven legs, my questionable balance, and my general inability to judge where my body is in space, I often teeter.

Cosmo watches.

I imagine him thinking, “Oh no. The big clumsy cat is going to fall.”

The moment I wobble too much, he bolts out the back porch door. I always keep it open for him because Cosmo needs an escape route. If I don’t, he will panic and body slam the glass panes.

I have learned this lesson.

And if I’m not wearing my eyeglasses, the situation becomes even worse. Without them, I’m not just The Big Clumsy. I’m also wandering around in a fog.

Still, I have a feeling Cosmo has adopted me in his own way. I think he believes I’m his mother.

Maybe not the kind of mother who grooms him or lets him sleep on her belly. Maybe not the kind of mother who can even walk across a porch without nearly falling over.

But I show up.

Twice a day.

I bring food.

I keep the door open.

And I respect his need to be tough, even when I know there’s a softer little meow hiding underneath that hiss.

Maybe we’re not so different, Cosmo and I. We’re both a little beat up, a little stubborn, and trying our best to navigate this strange world without falling down.

Although, between the two of us, I’m pretty sure he’s the one with better balance.