After years of wasted time spent standing up, walking across the room, and ushering varmints outside to do their business (or standing with the door open begging them to come back inside), we finally bought a Doggie Door.

It took about five minutes to install, and very quickly thereafter Mensa Maia had figured out to use it, analyzed what was wrong with the design, and had emailed the company with some helpful suggestions.

With some training, Kia the Labrador bobblehead eventually figured out that, if she pushed on the door with her nose, then the door might let her sneak through it if she hurried very quickly - but she's still not sure that the door likes her, and so she has to be persuaded to go outside (unless, of course, one of the other girls is already outside, and finds something to bark at - Kia would brave the smouldering sulfer fires of Hell if it meant that she got to bark at something).

However, I'm afraid that the doggie door remains a complete and baffling mystery to Lucy, the World's Dumbest Cocker Spaniel. She is simply unable to remember what happened the last time she went through the door, coming or going (not that she's sure which one of those she's doing, either).

The little manual said "First, go through the door, then - with the dog on the other side - open the doggie door flap completely and call the dog through the door." This scenario created some difficulties, since Lucy doesn't know her name, and wouldn't know how to come if I called her anyway. However, she does know one word of English - "Scoobie" - which means "something I can eat and quickly poop out onto the carpet".

So I stood outside while Lucy was inside and I held out a Scooby and I said "LucystupiddogwannaScooby?" Lucy thought she recognized some of those syllables, and so she started wagging convulsively, and then she started peeing on the floor.

Then she finally navigated the several feet of open floorway to the big hole in the doggie door, where I was holding the Scooby snack five inches from her cold, wet nose - but she was completely mystified by how she could get to it. I mean, she was INSIDE, and I was OUTSIDE, and so - that's that, right? That's as far away as the East is from the West, in Lucy-navigation.

She got all excited, and peed some more on the floor.

Eventually, by holding the Scooby snack INSIDE and pulling it through the hole, I got Lucy to follow it through the door. Of course, as she was stepping high to get over the threshhold, she got all upset and peed on the floor.

Then the directions read "Go to the other side, and hold only one corner of the flap open, and let the dog push through the door". This is where Kia developed her fear (by this time, of course, Maia had trotted through the door several times, in and out, and was basking in the sunshine working on alternative proofs of Fermat's last theorem).
It seems that that little 'clack' the door flap makes when it closes (it has a magnetic strip) scares Kia - well, let's face it. Strangers scare Kia. Odd sounds scare Kia. Rainbows and butterflies scare Kia. But she eventually managed to make it through the door by pushing through the CORNER of the flap - she's scared to go through the middle. I suspect that she thinks that that's just too direct and approach - she doesn't want to offend the little flap of plastic.

But Lucy simply could not get it. It was obvious that there was something in the way, so she wouldn't go through the door. I held the corner open; I swung the door back and forth to show her that it wasn't fixed in place; I tapped it with my finger. I offered her all of the Scooby Snacks in China. But she just COULDN'T GET IT.

Finally I just repeated Step 1 to get her back inside, and then we worked on going back and forth through until she did figure out that, if I held that whatever-it-was up out of the way, then it wouldn't hurt her to walk through. But she wouldn't go through on her own.

I think that Lucy has two neurons, and they are in conflict - one neuron says "Scooby! Scooby!" and the other neuron says "Door closed! Door closed!" If she had three neurons, then she'd have one to break the tie - but as it is, she just stands there with those two brain cells yelling at each other until her bladder settles the matter by peeing on the floor.

So eventually we got into a routine; we'd be inside for a long time, and then I'd tell the girls "Okay - go outside!" and Maia would pop through the door, go outside and potty and pee, and the do a perimeter check.

Kia would slink towards the door, and then - with prompting - she would push the flap aside and step through quickly before the door figured out what she was doing.

But Lucy - Lucy would HIDE when I said "go outside!" because she would know that she'd be faced with an intellectual puzzle again. I'd fuss at her and give her harsh commands to get her over to the door, right up next to the flap - then, of course, she'd pee, and then - AFTER she peed - she'd be coaxed outside through the flap. That's the problem - when it's time to go outside, then that means that Lucy has been inside for a while, so that when it's time to go outside, then her bladder is full. (If I could get Lucy to live outside, then she'd be going to the door to come INSIDE, so then she'd be peeing OUTSIDE before coming in. But, then, if I could get Lucy to live outside, then I'd never LET her inside.)

In fact, if you look closely at the photograph above, you'll see a puddle of Cockerpee right beside the door. I was going to wait until Ethel got home to let her clean all of this up, but after a while I realized that we would need a liferaft before Wednesday.

And then Lucy is outside with the other two dogs. She's figured out what to do then - she waits by the back door, and then - when one of the other dogs comes through - Lucy hides under their stomach (like Ulysses escaping from the Cyclops) and comes in underneath them. I reckon she thinks of the other dogs as some sort of Demidogs, with preternatural powers - they can actually walk up to that thing and walk right through it. (She is correct in this estimate - from her viewpoint, Maia and Kia have superpowers. They can actually remember what happened a few minutes ago. For Lucy, every minute is a brand new adventure).

The more time I spend around Lucy, the more convinced I am that the folks from Waggin' Train (the adoption agency who pawned her off on us) must have been doing experimental lobotomies or electrical shock therapy on the puppies under their care. It just doesn't seem possible for a dog that dumb to breathe - but she keeps doing that, much to my chagrin.

It's occurred to me that I could hook up a 9 volt battery to the doggie door flap, and make it an electromagnet - that might be enough to keep Lucy from EVER being able to open it up. And then Ethel would have to get rid of her. But that implies that "Lucy being a problem pet that can't fit into our household" would be a reason for Ethel to take her to the pound - but Lucy is ALREADY a "problem pet that can't fit into our household", and Ethel has done no such thing.

So I'll just keep a sponge by the back door.