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.

Found in It Happened Yestermorrow:  Stories Written Two Minutes Before Waking