Cats, as I’ve said before, are subtle creatures, excellent at curling themselves around edges and squeezing under and through seemingly impassible barriers. My dog is a large and clumsy beast, sloppy in his eager affection. Cats are never sloppy, even when they’re in the throes of catnip-fueled ecstasy or sprinting wild-eyed around the house, chasing tiny insects or phantoms only they can see.

People who believe in ghosts often claim that cats and dogs sense presences that people may not. For cats, with their fey and canny strangenesses, this can seem especially true. And it’s tempting to ascribe them with preternatural wisdom because they’re so often composed and dignified, yet they respond manically to stimuli people don’t perceive.

In my home, drawers slide open and slam closed. I firmly shut cabinet doors only to find them ajar later or hear them bang closed when I’m in another room. Canisters, especially the one that holds the catnip, crash onto the floor. The open dryer door thuds resoundingly against the wall. If you visit, beware when you use my bathroom; more than one person has been startled, while seated on the toilet, to see a cabinet door suddenly ease open and whiskers twitch into view. You never know where you’ll find a cat: in a kitchen drawer; in the three-inch space under the dresser; curled up amid warm clothes in the dryer; lurking behind a bookshelf; sprawled in the spot where you’re about to sit; hovering like a gargoyle atop the curtain rod; sniffing around the empty bathtub; coiled up in any box or basket available; creeping around Bishop in an attempt to stealth-pounce and nibble his tantalizingly long, tough toenails; seated right in front of the TV screen, entranced by those crazy moving images; attacking the paper feed on the printer; ensconced on the bookshelf with as much gravitas as any weighty tome thereupon.

Some people find the noises, the doors and drawers opening and closing, disconcerting. I find them comforting. As much as I may like the idea of ghosts, I’m reassured by the knowledge that when things go bump in the night here at Casa Gargoyles, the culprits are tangible, flesh-and-blood, furry and purry adventurers, not esoteric ectoplasm or some pint-sized serial killer hiding under the sink. (Hey, you read Helter Skelter and then tell me I’m paranoid.) I sleep better with more noises that I know are caused by felines (or, to give him his due, the hapless and supersized Bishop) than I ever did with fewer noises and no easily explicable causes.

So that’s how living with cats is like living with ghosts: mysterious sounds, drawers that won’t stay closed, cabinet doors that open and slam shut, things that screech and yowl when you accidentally sit down on them. Here’s how it isn’t like living with ghosts:

Ghosts don’t rush over to snuggle the second you crawl into bed. They don’t plop themselves squarely on the book you’re trying to read and demand attention. They don’t slide themselves under your arm while you’re typing. They don’t climb onto your back and give you massages with their paws. They don’t lick your fingers and groom your hair. They don’t strut back and forth in front of the dog, rubbing themselves against his nose, or climb onto his back while he’s sleeping and clean out his ears with their gritty little tongues. They don’t precede you from room to room, trilling at you and running back to make sure you’re following them. They don’t perch on the rim of the tub while you’re taking  a bath, dipping paws into the water and then acting shocked that the water is wet. They don’t get crazy on catnip or sleep like the absolute epitome of peace, snuggle into your side and purr, lick your tears when you cry, or provide you with comfort, love, and laughter every day.

Granted, ghosts don’t shed hair or require litter boxes or cough up hairballs. But even so, and as intrigued as I am by the idea of ghosts, I’m glad my roommates are feline (and, of course, Bishop) rather than supernatural.