Here he is, Bertrand Russel, Spawn of Satan. See those glowing eyes? That's not red-eye from the camera, folks. I got home about four o'clock. This thirteen-year old dog leaps four feet in the air, skates across the kitchen floor, and nearly bowls me over to get at his dog chow. I let him out in the yard and he takes the fastest poop known to man (I swear, he doesn't even slow down) so he can get in and get a treat. Later, I'm sitting in the office when I hear this rustling noise in the kitchen. He has discovered a package of bathroom cleaning wipes which he has torn the corner from so now they're leaking all over the floor. I clean up that mess and go sit down again. I hear him in the living room and when I investigate, he's on the table digging in my cookbooks. IN MY COOKBOOKS! The dog can't read! What is he doing...looking for residual butter? Sunday I was taking a bath and I could hear him in the kitchen digging in something, then he would march past the bathroom door with something in his mouth. We know what he's like so we're careful not to leave food around but he did this about four times and I thought I better get out and investigate. He has discovered, in the broom closet, a bag of treats, way in the back. He's managed to climb over the brooms, mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies to rip a small hole in the bag. He carries the dog treats out, one at a time to the living room to eat. If I hadn't gotten out of the tub, he would have gone through the whole bag. He's a piece of work, this one. When I'm home, he wants to go out about once an hour. Either his kidneys are bad or he thinks there's an outside chance I'll give him a treat when he comes in. I wonder who's trained here...me or Bert.