Leo jumped out of the first floor bedroom window yesterday. I didn’t see him but it’s the only possible way he could have ended up out on the back lawn, stalking small things in the grass. The bedroom transom window had only been open a crack.
As a dog person, it’s hard to believe a kitten can drop that far and survive perfectly happily. I thought he might be stiff later, or today but he’s not. He’s big for his age, lithe and rippling with fitness. I must find out anatomically, precisely what enables a cat’s jumping/landing gear. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about before.
Runty Lily is growing sweet and beautiful and stocky in comparison but still not big enough to make the spring to a windowsill or, thank goodness, leap into the unknown.
I don’t know how people manage with cats who never go out. Do they keep every window closed all the time? Does their cat never streak past their ankles like an exocet missile?
I let the kittens out for 20 minutes to half an hour or so every day now. I get them in by playing with them or they come in of their own accord. I still wouldn’t chance it within half an hour of having to leave for work though, just in case.
The garden’s such a fascinating place for them just now, with a few fallen leaves, the grass thick and cold and damp with dew in the mornings and always the chance of finding the odd froglet. There are lots of hiding places in the dying herbaceous shrubs. They play wild games of tag, streaking from one side of the garden to the other.
It’s only in the garden that their tabby markings really come into play. They are very difficult indeed to spot in the shadows. Which, I suppose, is the point.