That One Is On Me: My Devious Explorer
I am Azmi, writing from Meknes, and the headline on this entry is simple: that one is on me. My little explorer Mugi found the window ledge this week, mapped himself a route from the shelf, and built what I can only describe as a small bunwalk, a narrow runway with a view, where he strutted back and forth listening to absolutely nothing. It was unintentional on his part and inevitable on mine, because I left the shelf pushed just close enough to the window for a clever nose to connect the dots.
Field notes, morning: the route
Entry one, morning. Subject observed sitting on the low shelf, nose working, ears rotating like small dishes. The shelf holds books and a folded throw; the window ledge sits one confident hop away, sunlit, dust floating in the light. I watched him measure it the way rabbits measure everything, with the whole body: stretch forward, rock back, shift weight, stare. Then he did it, a clean hop, landing soft on the ledge with all four feet gathered, and he froze in that proud statue pose that means he knows he has done something worth witnessing. My fault level, recorded honestly: total.
Entry two, midday. The bunwalk has a soundtrack, or at least it does in my head, something high-energy with a strong beat, because he moves like he hears it. Step, pause, chin up, turn, step back. He pauses at the middle mark where the sun hits warmest and squints into the light like a tiny lifeguard. He thumps once, softly, not in fear but in emphasis, the way a performer taps the microphone. I sit on the floor to stay below his eyeline and let him own the stage, because interrupting an explorer mid-patrol only teaches him to patrol when I am not watching.
Field notes, afternoon: the motive
Entry three, afternoon. I ask myself what he wants up there, and the honest answer is everything rabbits want: height, novelty, a breeze, and a place I have not already claimed. From the ledge he can see the street, the opposite wall, the top of the shelf he just conquered, and me looking up at him, which may be the best part from his perspective. Curiosity in rabbits is not mischief, even when it looks exactly like mischief. It is mapping. He is drawing the flat in his head, shelf to window to floor, and filing it under places I fit.
This is where the ownership part matters. I had read enough proofing stories to know better, including a curtain trap story that reminded me how fast a clever rabbit turns furniture into a ladder, and I still left the launch pad in place. So I fixed it the same afternoon: shelf pulled back a full hop-plus out of range, a heavy bookend blocking the narrow gap, the ledge itself checked for sharp edges and cords. I also walked the room at his eye level, which is the single best proofing trick I know, and found two more step-chains I had missed behind the chair. Escape logic is universal, as this escape artists log shows, and my flat follows the same physics as everyone else.
- Route mapped: low shelf to window ledge, one hop, sunlit landing, full street view.
- Soundtrack: imagined, high-energy, strutted with pauses at the warm middle mark.
- Owner fault: total and accepted, shelf moved, gap blocked, room rechecked at floor level.
Field notes, evening: the supervision deal
Entry four, evening. The bunwalk stays, but supervised, because I refuse to turn the flat into a place with no high spots and no fun. When I am sitting nearby with nothing hot, sharp, or chewable within reach, he may patrol the safe version: shelf top only, window closed and latched, cushion placed below as a soft landing. I lift him down the moment he stretches toward the curtain cord or leans on the glass. Boundaries work best when they are consistent and boring, the same lift, the same word, the same redirect to the tunnel every single time.
Entry five, night. He ended the day exactly as explorers should, sprawled beside the shelf with his chin flat on the floor, ears draped out, exhausted by his own fame. I refilled the hay, topped the water, and gave him the spicy mix he loves, the fragrant handful that says the day is done. He ate half, flopped against the tunnel entrance, and sighed the deep sigh of a rabbit whose map got bigger today. Unrepentant, unharmed, and, for tonight, out of new ideas.
Closing the notebook
Where else would a bun strut, if not the one sunny runway in the whole flat. That one is on me, fully, and I would rather admit it than pretend my clever boy teleported. I left the ladder, he climbed it, and now we both know the route exists, which means I proof like someone who respects his intelligence. The notebook closes with the shelf moved, the ledge safe, and the explorer asleep below the stage he briefly owned, dreaming, no doubt, of a taller shelf.
Heights, cords, and glass stay human-managed in my house, for chewing or fall worries I check with my vet, not my confidence.
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