Every night Murphy watched as Flair worked feverishly, right paw clawing at the crate, drool escaping from her lips. If she’d had a brow, it would be sweating. She would not give up easily. He knew her intent—swing the door to the left, dash in, get the food. The food was the prize. He knew one day Flair would be successful. She was determined. Every night, he positioned himself to Flair’s right, prepared to act. He had to take advantage of the situation. Just be patient, he thought, it’ll come. And this was the night. Flair finally unlatched the door, swinging it to the left. The door hit her in her muzzle, blocking her attempt to enter. My plan worked, he thought. Laughing, Murphy dove in and finished the puppy’s food.