Boone the tomcat lives in the barn and greets me like a long-lost friend every single morning when I go down to feed the horses.

He lurks in the juniper beside the path and then leaps out at me all sideways, tail puffed up with that black-eyed, feline insanity that seems to get the best of them at times. I usually freeze in my tracks, a behavior I'm beginning to think just reinforces his craziness. After I say hello, he de-frizzes himself and trots straight at me, nearly swooning with love.

Or is it?

I can't believe I am still falling for that trick where the tomcat lays on his back in the dust, furry belly just begging to be rubbed, and all of a sudden it's like I've got my hand caught in a bear trap of the most evil and excruciatingly painful design imaginable and from which it is almost impossible to extricate one's self.

About half the time, I don't even like the mean little ... well ... I won't say it here. I will attempt to be polite.

And then he pulls a stunt like this.

He really is not nice. Nope. Not at all. Definitely not a nice cat.

But then again ...