Trapped

I live in a townhouse with 2 large dogs and 2 geriatric cats. One of the cats is so reclusive that she spends most of her life in under the sink in my powder room. I've humored her. She has a litter box in her little cabinet and a bed. Which means there really isn't room for food and water if we're going to be sanitary about the operation. So the food and water are crammed into a little corner next to the toilet. Fine. Except one of the dogs likes to pilfer the cat food. It's not good for the dog--or the cat, who really doesn't have the oomph to complain. So I invented a little pet management device.

The idea was to allow the door to the bathroom to open only wide enough for a cat. The offending dog is easily intimidated, so I felt certain she wouldn't try to squeeze her awkward 55-lb. body through the narrow opening. The trouble is that my invention is constructed of elastic headbands. Elastic. 
So tonight I went off to my jazzercise class, and when I came back, I found  the bathroom door closed and the cat food-scarfing dog trapped inside.
Poor thing.

Trapped.
I understand that feeling. If I could chew through something to finish up this divorce, I would.