Our cat used to try to get into our kitchen cabinets, but was sadly not quite smart enough to succeed. He'd hook a paw around the edge of the door, open it a few inches and then -- seeing the opening and getting overly excited -- put his paw down and start walking towards the opening. Which would vanish. Right as his head thwacked into the newly closed door. Over and over, he would repeat this while we listened to the telltale double-thump of door-head, door-head from the living room, shaking our own smarty-pants human heads sadly. Our Boy, He Is Just Not Very Bright.
I thought eventually he might figure out how to stop the door from closing by propping it with his head BEFORE putting his paw down, but he never did. He just stopped trying. Fucking cabinets, how do they work?
Today while I was getting dressed, Ike scooted gleefully around my bedroom -- his army-trench-crawl has gotten wicked fast, but he refuses to improve his form and move on to "real" hands-and-knees crawling. So he spends hours propelling himself around on his belly, usually with one of Jason's socks or some toilet paper stuck underneath him. Which is very dignified. As you can imagine. We of course intervene. Eventually.
He managed to get into the bathroom and push the door shut. This angered him. Greatly! Of course he had no idea how to open the door, and couldn't do much beyond sort of grab at it and either push it more closed or pull on it until it hit him in the face and ARGH THIS IS ALL THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT I WANT.
The problem was, though, that I couldn't quite figure out what to either. I couldn't open the door without hitting him; I couldn't reach in far enough to push him backwards without hurting him since he was planted right next to the sink cabinet; I couldn't just say, "Hey, brainiac, you gotta back up a few inches. Because hinges. Objects in space. The airspeed velocity of unladen swallows."
And so we battled at an impasse for what felt like an embarrassing, nervewracking length of time. Every time I managed to get my hand through the door and gently nudge him backwards, he hurled himself forward at the door with renewed rage, slamming it shut on my arm. Every time I tried to force the door open, he would move his head into the exact right position to get whacked with the corner of it. All the while I'm pleading with him to calm down and back up, BACK UP, like the English language was going to get us anywhere.
Anyway, TL;DR, I eventually got the door open and retrieved my baby from the bathroom floor unscathed, but exceedingly dusty.
I felt kind of bad for immediately thinking of the mentally challenged cat vs. kitchen cabinet story, but to be fair, I'm still not entirely sure which one of us necessarily represents the cat in this new-and-improved version, you know?