The whining at the door is hard to ignore. The pleading look in her eyes makes it seem as if this is the worst torture she could endure. She looks at me like I don’t care about her; like I want her to suffer. In reality, I am too busy laughing at the situation to think about fixing it. My dog, Annie, is in our dining room stationed three feet from the sliding glass door, which is open two feet. She is looking to the outside, wondering how she will get past her most vicious obstacle: my cat, Stars.