A pair of small black eyes meets mine. My run comes to an abrupt halt. A few yards in front of me, curled up on a leaf-littered path next to a busy road, is a damp black and white kitten. No more than a couple of months old, it looks vulnerable, with no houses nearby and cars thundering past. I feel a surge of apprehension for this tiny, unkempt thing.
Fearing the cat has been abandoned, I try to approach it, but it backs away into a tangled coppice of brambles and willows next to the road. I wade in after it, trying to tempt it with scraps of food, but it keeps retreating further into the thorny undergrowth. The grey November light is draining away, and I’m near the end of a long run, harried by squally wet winds, body temperature dropping. Eventually, I admit defeat.
