The remembrance of a book that I had once read flashed through my mind. The main character of the book once had a cat. The cat and the cat’s owner lived in a house with nine doors. The cat wanted to go outside, so it would go to a door demanding to be let out. When the owner opened the door, the cat would look out at the blowing blizzard and back away from the door. That was not the way the cat wanted to go. Then, the cat would run to another door demanding to be let out and the pattern would be repeated over and over again with the ever indulgent owner opening the each of the nine doors for the cat which would exit from none of them. What was the name of that book? As the memory began to fade, I wondered why that particular memory had surfaced at this particular point in time – at a time of choosing.