At our dinner table the cat sits on the floor except when it's chicken, then he sits on my lap or behind me, or directly in the path of hoped for falling food.
(A word about cats: If they had opposable thumbs with which to open cans, they wouldn't need us at all. In fact, they don't need us at all but they like the heat in the winter and the cool in the summer. Cats were once worshiped as gods. Cats have not forgotten this. The original Anya, a beautiful but haughty Persian, once tried to spear a bit of expensive, imported provolone as I was attempting to put it in my mouth.)