Mrs. Fetched used to have a dog that she’d trained to help her in the chicken houses — it would pick up dead birds, put them in the bucket, and “do everything but count ’em.” One day, I came out to find the dog dead in the pen for no obvious reason.
After a couple of years, she picked up a replacement puppy — same mom, different litter. Cute little furball, but noisy as all get-out (as in, “get-out of my house you loudmouth mutt!”). In less than two days, she has managed to: lay a minefield in the kitchen (and naturally, I stepped on the mine); drive M.A.E. nearly bat$#!+ with the incessant whining & howling; fascinate the cats (on the other side of a window); keep me up another hour wanting to play (pouncing on my hand like a cat, she has that much class anyway).
I’m not a dog person. But if the furball can help out Mrs. Fetched, fine. At least she’s starting to settle in and get used to not having seven brothers to dogpile with. Training should start soon.