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”. She startles when I touch her, shakes her head, comes over to the proper door and stomps past me, clearly pissed beyond belief at the shoddy service she gets around here lately. She places herself in front of the couch, and barks a short, angry, imperious bark at me, code for “Put me up on the freakin’ couch, and make it snappy!”.