The wind had an argument with the back door, and the wind won.
It rattled the door until it opened a crack, then threw it open and closed, open and closed. This alarmed Birch the dog. He responded bravely: There was an invisible intruder outside, and it needed to be barked back into the darkness.
Funny thing is, it worked. The wind abated, but not before it had sheared the door's pneumatic closer from the frame, ripped out the screws that held the door fast, loosened a light fixture over the door and splintered the wood from the frame.
The back door couldn't be used. But that was the dog's door. That was how he got outside to do the things that need to be done. (Our rules, not his decision.) No problem, I thought, the house has another door, a side door once used by tradesmen and servants.
The first time I opened it to shoo him outside, he seemed confused: How had this portal opened up? What else have you been hiding? I knew about the front door, and the garage door, but this, what sorcery is this?
When he'd finished his business, he went … right to the back door he always used.
I went to the side door, called him. He didn't budge. I got the box of treats and shook it, a sound that can summon him from afar. Nothing. I poured some kibble in the dish — he watched me do it through the back door — then rattled the dish at the side door. He didn't bat an eye.
I ended up having to pick him up and carry him inside.