New Dog--decidedly NOT helpful.

So I'm loading ammunition. I've got the wood stove going in the reloading shop and it's all nice and cozy and peaceful.

Enter New Dog, my velcro buddy who can't seem to stand to be more than ten feet away from me at any given time.

First he decides that he doesn't like or trust the brass tumbler. It's just sitting there on the floor, minding it's own business as it whirs away making old fired brass new and shiny again. Well New Dog seems to suspect it of subversion, because he keeps growling at it. I tell him to quit, and he barks at it defiantly then swats it with his paw a couple of times.
"I was talking to YOU," I tell New Dog.

He leave the tumbler along for a few minutes, and I've almost forgotten that he was in the shop when he walks through an area where I have several small boxes of brass in various stages of processing sitting on the floor. Does he step over or around any of these open boxes? Nope. He steps ON them and spills several of them, flipping brass cartridge cases all over the place and co-mingling them all nicely.

I gently chide him and set about picking the damned things up. Meanwhile, he goes over and re-engages his nemesis, the brass tumbler, again. "RrrrrrrrUFF! RUFF! RUFF!"

"LEAVE IT!"

Big sigh.

I go back to work, and shortly, I crush a casing with the press. I remove it from the shell holder and toss it across the room into a big tub that I have that is filled with damaged or rejected brass. Courtesy of the Browning machine gun and it's healthy appetite for berdan-primed brass, the tub's fairly full. Enter New Dog. He saw me toss the single .45 casing across the room and he ran over to the brass tub and began DIGGING for whatever treasure just landed in there. I hear the brass jingling and I look over to see him standing there with his two front paws in the tub raking through the brass. Naturally, there's now a sizable quantity of brass from that tub rolling around on the shop floor.

"GET OUT OF THERE!!!"

Somewhat chagrined but not done with the mischief-making yet, he scampers off as I grab the broom and dustpan to pick up the brass. A few moments later, he manages to find a large trash box filled with that stupid huge bubble wrap packing material that the folks at Midway USA use to pack tiny items snugly in very large boxes. This stuff consists of large green air packs about six inches long and 2-3 inches in diameter that are all connected in long chains. New Dog decided that these are the greatest toy ever and commences to pulling the long chains of of the box that I've put them all in and he starts jumping on them and biting them trying to pop every last bubble.

OK, this is kinda funny to watch, but then he begins to eat the plastic so I have to take it away from him and make sure that it's all picked up and put away somewhere out of his reach. And this takes a few minutes, because while there's just one me, there's lots of this bubble wrap (Thanks, Midway!) and he's prancing around the shop with chain after chain of the stuff, just having a great time popping it and doing his best to keep it away from me.

I finally gave up so we're back upstairs now. I'm typing and he's laying happily next to my chair with just one eye kept on the stairwell door in case that tumbler comes up wanting another piece of him.

Dogs...