I’m going to start this off by saying I think my cockapoo, Elvis, is the best dog in the whole world. In my eyes, he’s a “good boy” even when he’s outrageously behaved. That being said, his recent crimes have included: stealing my mum’s sandwich off her desk at work (we call him “the robber”), wolfing down an entire bar of Toblerone and the foil while the dog sitter’s back was turned (somehow, he emerged unscathed, despite chocolate being notoriously toxic to dogs), and attempting to leap into the driver’s seat, despite being clipped into the back of the car. Undeniably, he is a handful.
When we first went to meet Elvis’s litter in 2013, my mum and I were perplexed. The ethical breeder told us there was one puppy she knew would suit us and plonked this bundle of black fur in my lap. Five minutes later, while his brothers and sisters snoozed, he’d launched an escape mission out of the room. Why did she think we’d vibe with the lunatic?
