My cat leaps to a height relative to his that would be, for me, twelve feet or more, many times a day, beginning not from a run, but from stillness.
When he does so, he has no idea what the landing will be like or what to expect. He simply can’t see that high to know what is in store for his little pink padded feet: Sharp knives on the kitchen table? A plate left from a pancake breakfast sticky with maple syrup? Snakes? A red-hot fry pan?
But he does it anyway. He does it while I try to game the future, assessing risk, predicting beneficial outcomes, avoiding pain.
I am the chicken-master of my cat.
Geoff O’Keeffe 26:V:18