The last time my poor old cat came out into the garden took me completely by surprise. He had been sitting on the sofa, in the warm, somewhat sorry for himself, and I thought that was where he would stay that day. But there was a bit of golden sun in the sky and out he came, a bit tottery on his back legs, and walked round the pots, owning each one, until the garden was his again. Even just a few weeks ago, he would then have hopped up onto the cat shelf (a warm stone slab under the vine that catches the sun into the afternoon) for a nap, but not that day. He turned around and walked back into the house, stopping for a rest inside each door on the way.
He enjoyed the warm stone in the garden, but it was hard under his old feet by then. Mind you, he liked uncomfortable things. We gave him a heat pad, cushions, a lovely soft cat bed; he would always rather sleep on cold stone, piles of electrical cables, and preferably completely in the way of everything. The tank picture is from about seven years ago, but the rest are this spring. You can see he is old, but he hardly looks his age (twenty, a Methuselah among cats).
Last week, he looked his age. This week, he is gone. Next week, I shall clear a bit of soil at the front of the flower bed to plant teasels in next year, and a little of him will return and become part again of the garden.