At eleven thirty it’s time for Rocket’s sunbath. He finds the solid rectangle of light that stretches across our green carpet. He closes his eyes and arcs his snowy white chest upward, lifts his nose and offers himself to the god of all of cat creation. To the great creator of the only thing worth creating, he worships. By noon his deity is sliding east. By 12:15 it has climbed up the wall. He reaches with long arms and dagger sharp claws to catch an outer corner until that too slips his grasp.