No matter how much I push and pull at my apartment’s French doors, my ambition–imitating Eva Peron on a balcony belting out “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”–remains thwarted. Actually, you might want to cry for my cats: I’m on the top floor and there’s no screen in place. Dreamy’s too fat to fit through the wrought iron trim, but if Tuna decides to be Tuna, he could easily plummet to the parking lot below. He pulled this stunt as a kitten. I’ve no desire for a déjà vu moment, so for the moment, the doors are staying closed.