My gray cat rubs against everything— the doors, the walls, the stove, the refrigerator, me, my wife, the floors, the bookshelves; he gives everything in his path a friendly rub. He doesn't make much of a distinction between animate and inanimate objects; he enjoys a kind of cosmic 'rubbing-against-ness' with all things. It's interesting how free he is. He has such a tiny brain compared to us. He loves the sun; wherever the sun-spot is in our house, there he is, curled up in silent cat ecstasy. He loves the bushes in the back yard for scratching. They say cats need to be petted and touched. But the gray cat lets everything touch him. His rolling around on the newly mown grass is the Nirvana of cat-dom. He seems, with his little, tiny brain, to think that this earth is already a paradise, ready-made for him to experience unending joy. He's simply always blissed-out, and he can't even sleep without the loud purring of his pleasure at being alive. Such a tiny brain, such a big heart, filled with sheer delight at the way things are.