As I type, a cat named Knuckles is doing a figure 8 around my ankles. Earlier, he took a nap by the sliding glass doors at my future in-laws' house. Then, he ran into the kitchen and furiously rolled around on a small green rug in front of the sink.
He's also famous for curling up on paper -- newspaper, computer paper, wrapping paper -- and napping there.  I don't know what's so comfortable about it.  The last time I took a nap on a bed of paper was in grad school, in the library, on a wide splay of photocopied research studies from various communication periodicals.  The text starts always starts to blur around my second hour of reading, but a quick nap can reset my brain and my tired eyeballs.
In the time it took to write the above paragraphs, Knuckles has resigned from ankle-circling and settled into sleep mode (or, as I like to call it, "kitteh deactivated" mode) on a soft couch cushion behind me.
This cat has got a pretty good life.  He was born outdoors and my future mother-in-law and father-in-law (MIL and FIL for short!) coaxed him indoors once per day for a bowl of cat food.  Soon, Knuckles began to wait by their back door and meow incessantly when he wanted to escape the wild jungle of their suburban street.  He's been alive for about three winters now and could have easily died in the cold weather if he hadn't warmed up to MIL and FIL.
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