Yes Twila, we have a cat like that too here at Chateau Sinister. We acquired him from an elderly lady who was moving to a place that didn't allow cats, and he'd have been euthanized (horrible euphemism: he'd have been killed) if we hadn't taken him in. I accepted, with very bad grace. The elderly lady had him castrated and declawed, so of course he's inclined to be a little cranky (well, wouldn't you be if you'd had your balls cut off [assuming you had them] and your fingernails pulled out?), but without claws it's not safe for him to be let out to roam the neighbourhood the way he wants to, he doesn't understand how defenseless he is. So he's an indoor cat, but has no clue why he has to be an indoor cat, and doesn't like it.
Understand now, I'm not fond of cats. They dig up and crap in my flower beds, kill the birds I try to attract to my yard, puke hairballs on my carpets, make horrible noises around the neighbourhood at night... But I'm not so heartless as to want to shoot them all (well, not on most days). This cat came into our house because of the piteous cries of my (at the time) pre-teen daughter. She swore it'd be her cat, she'd feed him, clean the litter box, exercise him, entertain him, yada yada yada ya sure... For those of you with teenage children, I hardly need to say this, but for the benefit of the childless: in five years she's fed him twice that I know of (I'm the food guy) and cleaned the litter box maybe six times, under heavy parental pressure.
But I digress, as I often do. He thinks he should be let outside, and will run with me to the back door in eager anticipation, and hiss when I nudge him away from the door with my foot. He's managed to escape a few times, and rarely goes farther than lurking in the junipers by the fence, so most of the time it'd probably be safe to let him out, but I can't do it with a clear conscience. There are other cats around, some of them much bigger than he is, with claws, so all I feel safe in doing is letting him out on a leash when I'm also outside. He doesn't like the leash much either, though he seems pretty much resigned to it, and I don't blame him for that. I wouldn't like it either.
Nor do I like him much, frankly, because he's a cat and I'm suspicious of all cats (can you really own a cat? I don't think so; they'll let you live in their house with them) but I feel I have to protect him from his own ignorance of his weaknesses.
His name's Baxter. I call him Bastard. He can't tell the difference.