What were the local cats thinking? They would be scrutinising Dixie's technique. Was there was some sort of a knack to it, some secret method? Maybe it was the way he wriggled his shoulders when he pushed the door? Maybe something else, something more subtle. Whatever it was, if they watched him for long enough, they would learn the secret. They observed his angle of approach, and the way he lowered his head. They weren't quite sure, but was he lifting one leg off the ground just before the moment of contact? Or was he pausing a moment? One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double Elm Ranch to inquire about a bunch of strayed yearlings. He was late in setting out on his return trip, and it was sundown when he struck the White Horse Crossing of the Nueces. From there to his own camp it was sixteen miles. To the Espinosal ranchhouse it was twelve. Givens was tired. He decided to pass the night at the Crossing.
     There was a fine water hole in the river-bed. The banks were thickly covered with great trees, undergrown with brush. Back from the water hole fifty yards was a stretch of curly mesquite grass - supper for his horse and bed for himself. Givens staked his horse, and spread out his saddle blankets to dry. He sat down with his back against a tree and rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in the dense timber along the river came a sudden, rageful, shivering wail. Did he sniff at the drain before he pushed the door? Maybe that was it. Maybe it was to do with what he ate beforehand, or perhaps it was the angle of his tail on entry. Was it only at certain times of the day that the door opened for him so wantonly?
     George came over, dressed in his weekend gear; torn jeans, an REM T-shirt, converse all stars on his feet.
     'How's your fabulous patented leaf control system working, buddy?'