Things have changed around here. We’re living in a post cat-flap world.
This is a world of muddy little footprints, of having an extra window to clean in the kitchen, of sudden noisy entrances.
Leo is at ease with the cat flap. He slinks through it to go outside and he returns in a measured, unperturbed way as though practising his “cat cool.”
Lily aways makes getting out seem like hard work. She pokes the flap with her nose as if it’s all too much, then clambers in ungainly fashion through the flap and plops on to the terrace outside.
But her re-entry is invariably dramatic; a sudden clatter and a streak of tabby flashes through the kitchen into the hall and galumps up the stairs as heavily as a small horse.
I haven’t worked out whether she takes a running leap at the flap from outside, launching herself with sufficient velocity to hit the ground running inside or whether she thinks she’s being chased by monster.
Talking of which, I wandered into the kitchen the other day to make a cuppa and found Leo frozen in mid-stride in the middle of the room, all tensed, neck extended, staring intently at the cat flap window.
I followed his gaze and there, filling the square, was the full furry face of a feline ginger stranger – staring in with malevolent yellow eyes.
How do you warn your immature felines of stranger danger? I dunno but Leo was very freaked about the face at the window. He was poised but in an equivocal way. It could have been a “take one step nearer and you’ll be dead meat” or he could have been preparing to flee.
Just as well we have a high security flap which remains locked unless it detects the microchips of my deadly duo.
I’ve seen the ginger cat in the garden since, with Lily in hot pursuit but I’m not sure whether it’s aggression or play. She seems to have retained all her fur so far – so I’m presuming that, so far, none has flown.