There were 32 doors in Ruth’s house. She knew for sure because she’d counted them when her cat, Sargent Pepper, insisted on trying each and every one.
The first door she opened let out on a snowbank. Sargent Pepper gave her such a pitiful yowl, as though the cold and wet might be a personal insult.
This was followed by a tour of every room, and every closet until at last they returned to the back door, where, of course, the snow remained.
“I promise someday this door really will let out into summer,” she told him. “Just not today.”