You know how you can be working at something when a faint sound gradually penetrates your consciousness? You’ve been hearing it for some time but only after many repetitions does your brain go, “Hey, that’s not a normal noise.” So it was, both last night and this morning, when a faint, thin, mouse-squeak of a whine floated into my head.
Miró was stuck again. He can whine like a car’s brakes squeaking. He pushes open the door into the guest bathroom, where it’s quiet and dark, and curls up for a nap on the thick Gabbeh rug that’s the size of a dog bed. The door swings shut. Although Miró uses his paws to push and grab more than any of my other dogs, he prefers to wait and whine until his service provider (me) comes to open the door, rather than to experiment with manipulating the door and possibly pulling it open. This is a good thing. Once he figures out how to hook his paw around a door and pull it open, the kitchen cupboards will never be safe again. It’s a nightmare I shudder to contemplate.
The question is, why does he keep going in there when he knows what will happen? Apparently the pleasure of a nap in a private room outweighs the inconvenience of waking up to find himself unable to get out.