The cat follows a dotted line only it can see. It has its own route to everything. It hates to walk directly anywhere and by its actions thumbs its nose, if it had a thumb, at the old adage about the fastest route being a straight line.
It rubs the wall with its side and raises its tail to signal its desire to go outside. I acknowledge the demand with a grumble.
But there is a great distance of six feet from the door through the mud room to the outside storm door. It must pause. I must explain my own discomfort caused by the chill on the porch.
Out of some programmed necessity it must avoid the runner carpet and arch its back against a storage cabinet and pause again. I must explain to it that I am not properly dressed—either practically or legally—to be standing so long on the porch.
It must serpentine the rest of the way to the door. I must yell at it to hurry.
But the door jamb is delicious to smell. And I must continue to wait.