It never ceases to amuse me that permakitten Grace adores having the rug being pulled out from under her. Literally. Once a morning, she rumples my throw rug and then sprawls upon it, belly up, eyes slitted. When I slooowwwly slide her off to straighten the rug out, she purrs with the greatest satisfaction. Sometimes she even lets me drag her around on it first, as if she were lying upon a sled. Or a throne, come to think of it. Whatever her intent, this action impresses me. Living metaphors always do.