No, children, we aren't to spring yet. Not for a while yet.
I knew when I got Jack at the very end of July, that he would be six months old at the end of December, and that I was most likely looking at the Winter from Hell. Being more or less confined over a long winter with a robust, healthy, energetic male Shorthair puppy is not a recipe for peace and sanity unless you're either Gandhi or totally comatose.
But the lad is surprising me. (A little!) I knock on wood as I write this, but he seems to be housebroken at this point. Actually comes to me and then runs to the door to go out. And he is learning about manners and protocols, becoming a wee bit less the Visigoth almost every day. At this point he is almost a semi-civilized Gaul.
Of course, he has his moments. LIke, enjoying picking up the water bowl and throwing the contents all over the floor. (SOLUTION: Never put more water in the bowl than needed at the time.) Or ripping the guts out of any dog bed he sees. (SOLUTION: Keep him away from Mags and Em's beds and give him a folded, hard, acrylic blanket in his crate.) Or raiding trash cans. (SOLUTION: Keep bathroom doors closed and put mousetraps on the lids of other cans.) Adapt and overcome!
It's actually not nearly as bad as I feared it might be. All in all, he's a pretty nice guy.