Jake does this thing where he decides that, for some reason, he cannot come through the dog door. Perhaps there is a dog lying too close to the other side (say, 3' away...). Perhaps it didn't settle quite right the last time someone went through it. Perhaps he found a lovely dumbbell toy in the yard and it hits the side when he starts trying to go through and he can't figure out what to do with it.
So Jake's sitting outside the dog door, whining, the plastic squeaky dumbbell toy lying at his feet in front of the door. He's whining and staring hopefully at me through the glass sliding door. I am not getting up and going over to open the sliding door because the dog is too dumb to figure out how to get a lightweight plastic dumbbell through the door.
Casey, meanwhile, has been watching intently Jake from *inside* the house, through the sliding glass door. Mind you, he had been carrying the lovely special dumbbell around all morning since he got home from his Tahoe vacation last night but lost interest somewhere along the way.
So Jake's sitting there, whining. I'm ignoring him. Casey sticks his head through the dog door from the inside out, leans way down, grabs the dumbbell, and pulls his head back into the house, leaving Jake sitting there, now looking merely pathetic, but still wanting me to come and let him in since he's been so abused and neglected.
Casey is happy; his butt wiggles and he sings at me through the dumbbell in his mouth.