Homer came home from downtown, entered by the back door, walked down the hall through the family room, put a gallon of milk in the refrigerator in the kitchen. And there on the floor was a trail of birch leaves. It took no skilled woodsman to track his every step. His path was perfectly marked with little birch leaves.
I had just vacuumed the rug. I was upset. I upbraided him for not cleaning his feet.