When I first got married, we had a fascinating cat named Hugo.
On our first anniversary we went out to dinner, and came back to find Hugo under the downstairs porch of our apartment (we had the second floor.)
He had apparently been hit by a car crossing the street, so we rushed him to the animal hospital. They operated on him, inserting pins to rebuild his broken leg bones, and after a few days he came home with a bag brace on the broken leg. As soon as he had energy enough to get out of the carton we had for his bed, he dragged himself to the back door, asking to go out onto our second-floor porch, from which his habit had been to jump down to the roof of the garage on the first floor, and from there to the ground.
Here he is, wondering why we won't open the door.