(NB: My camera is being dumb, so this is a stunt double culled from the Internet. Dog Two is paler in the face, dopier, and sports a sock on his right foreleg that has little romping beagles on it. His cone is also even bigger.)
Dog Two is a dingbat. He is just never going to figure out that cone. He's been banging into things for two solid weeks: door frames, furniture, my legs, my butt, Dog One, everything. He walks around with a big dopey grin, because he has no idea anything is different from usual.
Mind you, this is an intelligent dog. Not a smart dog, but an intelligent dog. He learned to sit for his dinner on the first repetition. But he is hampered in the application of that intelligence by his complete lack of guile. He does not get through the swinging kitchen door because he is sneaky, but rather because he runs into it full tilt like a doofus and finds himself suddenly in the kitchen.
But he is a savant, too, because he has found a way around his cone. He is completely unable to integrate its dimensions into his mental picture of his body, but he can fold the thing against his leg and use the edge to scratch his wounded foot. He pulled out multiple stitches this way while boarded at the vet and scraped the top of his foot up enough to cause a second wound. We got him a larger, more radio-array-like cone, and he still does it. I am driven to distraction. But think about this: Dog Two is now a tool-using animal. We are all in deep shit.
Unless I murder him before he finally gets any actually smart ideas.