A thump from the bottom of the spiral stairs. I throw back the duvet and rush to the scene. Dusty is looking up at me with her affronted expression, her front legs splayed on the second step and her bottom on the floor. I go down, step carefully over her and lift her back to the shag-pile rug.
'Stay here, my baby girl,' I soothe, stroking her ears until she lets her head flop down.
What can I put across the bottom of the stairs to deter her from trying to come up? Neither the upended footstool nor the flattened cardboard box barriers have worked in the past. Ah. My towelling dressing gown. I drape it across, like a curtain, and tie it either side to the stair rail and the centre pole.