To be more accurate, Jon does.
Prairie children are raised with a few simple commandments: "Don't let the heat out" (October to May) and "Don't let the mosquitoes in" (June to September). My father was equally clear about never slamming car doors. Resistance was futile.
Judging from my limited experience, however, Southern Ontario offspring must have had an enchanted door-free childhood. If he thinks of them at all, my spouse views doors as benign spirits which make no demands and hold no fears. In fact he has doors which miraculously close themselves, an outcome ensured because he had the great good sense to marry a prairie girl.
It is simple operant conditioning. On hearing the storm door open, my autonomic nervous system goes on high alert. My radar instantly detects a phalanx of mosquitoes hovering just outside. Without straining, I can hear the triumphant "Its HIM!" followed by a chorus of tiny giggles. And so it goes. Just exactly what choice do I have but to put down my coffee (brush, scalpel, blowtorch, icepick -- your choice) and run to breach the assault?
To spare you what follows, I shall immediately skip to my point, which is that you should not expect to see a painting of mine which figures on an open door. Even if the building is a deserted sugar shack with broken windows, the door will be gently but firmly shut.
Dad would be so proud.