The cat’s domain is overrun with invaders, but the parliament of her brain is in deadlock: she goes from resignation to panic and back again. Imelda, meanwhile, goes from the back of the couch to the arm of the recliner in one long flail-to-balance step. Shifting her weight forward causes the recliner to do what it does best, but if she goes up on tiptoe she can balance against the ceiling. This is allowed under the rules (no matter what Daran says). It’s not that the floor is made of lava; it’s that the air is full of joy.