Sammy grooms himself, snuggled up in the velvet blanket lined cat bed by the window, his back to the view. The backyard panorama of naked trees, sharp with warm winter sunlight, tower over him from beyond the window.
Tim is absorbed with his game, and gradually sinking a centimeter lower each minute he reclines in our massive beanbag chair, the gentle clicking of his controller and the occasional sniff the only evidence of his activity.
Toby, tail held high and bossy as ever, meanders into the room and hops up to sit against Tim's arm. Pet me. Pet me, and I will purr, and I will be satisfied. And then in a minute I will bite you, and I will still be satisfied, but you will probably bleed a little, but you are fine, don't be a baby.