Cats and God

I don't know why they do it. I've known very few cats who don't do it. Perhaps an animal behaviorialist could tell me.
I settle onto my bed for a good read. My head and shoulders are comfortably propped with a pillow and my book rests on another pillow on my chest. Perfect height for reading.
I thumb to the page where I'd left off and start to drift into the world of fictional characters and settings.
Then. . . ploomth. Nina, the cat leaps onto the bed. She usually starts at the foot of the bed. I feel the little mattress depressions of her paws, stealthily moving upward toward my shoulders and head. Her throat rumbles with affectionate (and hopeful) purrs and she nudges the book away from my face.
My arm comes down, pinning her soft little body next to my torso.
Same old drill.
She waits, lies still, yellow-green eyes staring, waiting.
I turn my attention back to the book.
Nina's body shifts slightly but not enough to distract me.
Another shift.
Now her head rests on my shoulder. I can feel her breath, coming in little puffs. She gazes at me adoringly.
Next comes the paw, which she uses to pull herself up closer to my face. The action is nearly imperceptible.
My cat is stalking my face.
And in another second half of the book's page is obscured by a furry face. She leans forward, sips my breath, her purrs coming in quick little "huffa, huffa, huffa" pants.
Not to be denied, the cat wants all of my attention.
Not content merely with a warm side and caressing fingers.
No, I must look at her, only at her. My book is an idol, to be cast down (on the floor, actually). Nina desires my worship.
She will not accept cast-off attention.
That is not worship.
No when-I'm-ready, or when-I-feel-like-it, or if-it's-convenient, kind of attention.
That is not worship.
I must sacrifice the book.
And if I put her off, she will be back. Again and again.

How like God are cats!

"I am the Lord, your God. . . you shall have no other gods before me." (Genesis 20:2,3)