Usually Pete used his own door, but he categorically refused to go out through it as soon as snow fell. Then he forced me to open the human door for him. While still a fluffy, nimble kitten, Pete had worked out a simple philosophy for himself, according to which I was responsible for shelter, food, and weather, and he was responsible for everything else. He believed I had a special responsibility for the weather. And you know that winters in Connecticut are good only, perhaps, on Christmas cards. That winter Pete made a rule of going up to his own door, sniffing it, and turning back. You see, he was not satisfied with the nasty white substance covering the ground and everything around. He would start pestering me to open the human door for him, because he was firmly convinced that at least one of the doors had to open into summer. So every time I had to go around all eleven doors with him and open them one by one, so he could be sure that behind each of them was the same winter. And with every new disappointment his displeasure with me grew. Still, he stayed inside until the hydraulics of nature forced him to go outside. When he returned, the ice on his paws clicked on the floor like wooden-soled shoes. He looked at me fiercely and refused to purr until he had licked off the ice, after which he graciously forgave me - until the next time. But he never stopped looking for the Door into Summer.
“The Door into Summer”, Robert Heinlein