Dacks, the black lab now occupying the house (seemingly every inch of it) can only be described as a wrecking ball. There are certainly times where he is idle; happy to snuggle into any waiting lap and bask in the attention. Out of nowhere, though, he'll rev to life and take to sprinting. This leaves anyone tabbed to watch him with little choice but to hunt around for the one Kate and I have come to affectionately nick name "The Monkey." Letting him run free, unsupervised, would be a bad decision. Dacks already proved this with his surprise fecal land mine he left in Kate's closet last week. We thought we'd done a great job house training him, and hadn't suffered an accident in some time, when we were caught off guard. You can't leave him on his own, lest you feel the wrath of the wrecking ball.
While most of these destruction devices are merely weighted orbs of iron, ours has teeth. He does enjoy the sensation of crashing into an unsuspecting leg or, if your seated, chest. His added gear comes when he bares the fangs and decides to investigate a foreign object with his jaws. Shoes are fun for him, especially Kate's crocs. But he'll gladly chomp down on sticks, bike pedals, table legs, or the baseboard heater. He's not too discriminating at this point.
I should know that labs love water, having grown up with three of them. The Monkey managed to shock me in spite of this understanding when he crashed through the shower curtain and splashed around with me this morning. Admittedly, we weren't dealing with any scene from Psycho or anything, but it did take me off guard when, with closed eyes and shampoo lather stuffed ears, my feet were attacked with an inquisitive tongue.
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