We have two dogs. Ivory (see "the land provides! part 1") has been with us since forever, but Lancelot is a new addition. Rowan wanted a pet of her very own so badly, and he was so beautiful, and so cheap! Of course, he had no training whatsoever that we could detect, although it's possible he knew a few words in Russian, and had never set paw in a house before. We didn't care; we were captivated. One evening before he acquired a permanent name, Homero and I were watching one of those ridiculous cable shows, "Hotties of the 90's: where are they now?" or something like that, and as a result, the dog very narrowly escaped being named Fabio. Rowan wouldn't allow it, but I stand by my assertion that the resemblance is uncanny.
We love Lance, even though he has chewed through three remote controls, two pairs of glasses, three cell phones, and too many toys to remember. He has an annoying high pitched bark, sheds copiously and continuously, and cannot be trained not to jump on people and knock them over.
More to the point, he cannot be trained not to chase chickens. I've tried everything, including holding him down, growling in his face and biting his ears, which is what my sister says a mother dog does when her puppy does something very very bad. Lance will chase chickens merrily until he sees me coming, whereupon he will instantly roll over on his back, paws waving in the air, the very picture of repentance, until I turn my back. Then he jumps up and starts chasing chickens again. He doesn't kill the chickens - at least, not on purpose. What he wants to do is catch them, hold them down with his front paws, and pull all their tailfeathers out one by one. Some chickens survive this treatment; some do not. Actually, only one chicken has been killed, as long as I assume that the pig got the baby chicks and not Lancelot.
Nowadays, Lancelot spends a lot of time in the attitude in the photo above - sticking his long nose through the gate and drooling lovingly at the sight of chickens.
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