Tessa gets lost outside the double doors sometimes. One of them, as she well knows, is merely decorative - it doesn't even open. Right now, there's a bucket of fireplace ashes in front of it, and a big, yellow snow shovel. Still, Tessa wedges herself in behind them both, barking at me through the glass, furious that I do not come and let her in right this minute. I am, in fact, standing in the other door, the one that does open, shivering in bare feet and a t shirt. I step outside, into the snow, and gently poke her with my foot, saying "hey, psst. Old lady. The door is over here".