People who don't own cats often imagine them as graceful, mysterious creatures possessed of ancient wisdom. Those people have clearly never watched a cat sprint through a house at three in the morning because a dust bunny looked at it funny.

I've come to believe there is a psycho in every cat.

Not all the time. Cats are clever. They conceal it. They lure us into a false sense of security with purring, cuddling, and those slow blinks that seem to say, "I love you."

Then suddenly they're hanging upside down from a lampshade.

My current cat, a stray named Cosmo, is a perfect example.

Cosmo sometimes recognizes me and sometimes doesn't.

I can prop open the porch (where I feed him) and he'll look delighted to see me, trotting over with his tail held high as if we've been best friends forever. Ten minutes later, I'll re-enter after getting a cup of tea and he'll stare at me as though I've broken into his apartment.

"Who are you and why are you here?"

It's me, Cosmo. The same person who fed you breakfast.

Cosmo also has very strict petting regulations.

He allows exactly three strokes.

One.

Two.

Three.

At stroke number four, he wheels around and glares at me as if I'm the crazy one.

How dare I continue the activity he just requested?

His expression says, "I agreed to a limited petting contract. You have violated the terms."

I don't know who counts to three faster, Cosmo or a bomb squad technician.

Then there's the hissing.

Cosmo hisses for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Not at me. Not at visitors. Not at a random noise.

Just... in general.

He'll be sitting peacefully in a sunbeam, apparently enjoying life, when suddenly:

"HSSSSSSSS!"

Nothing happened.

No threat is present.

No one moved.

The porch remains exactly as it was before.

Apparently, some cats experience involuntary vocalizations and unusual behavioral tics. While it isn't exactly Tourette syndrome—humans have a specific neurological condition by that name—some cats do seem to have mysterious urges to make sounds that leave everyone else confused.

Cosmo appears to have appointed himself spokesperson for this category.

Sometimes he hisses and then looks surprised that the noise came out of his own face.

I've met many cats over the years, and every single one had a hidden screw loose somewhere.

One cat I knew opened cabinet doors but couldn't remember why he'd opened them.

Another spent hours stalking a houseplant.

A third became emotionally attached to a sponge.

Not a toy sponge.

A kitchen sponge.

She carried it around like a treasured heirloom.

Dogs, by comparison, are refreshingly transparent. A dog will tell you exactly who he is within the first ten minutes.

"I enjoy food."

"I enjoy sticks."

"I enjoy you."

That's the entire autobiography.

Cats are far more complicated.

A cat can adore you, fear you, judge you, ignore you, and demand dinner—all within a thirty-second interval.

And yet we love them.

Perhaps because beneath the insanity lies genuine affection. Cats just express it differently. A dog says, "I would die for you."

A cat says, "I have evaluated your performance and will permit you to continue."

Cosmo, despite his identity crises, petting restrictions, and spontaneous hissing, has worked his way into my heart. When I’m outside gardening, he curls up nearby (not too close, mind you; there are standards) and settles in to supervise my activities.

Occasionally he even permits a fourth stroke.

Actually, no he doesn't.

What was I thinking?

There's a psycho in every cat.

Even the mushy ones.