Brad, that brings back memories. My father gave me a Remington bolt action .22 when I was 12. At that time, we had a little place out in the country, with a lake that we had created by damming the creek. We set up a target range on the dam, and I would practice shooting there. Problem was, we had a cocker spaniel appropriately named "Trouble," who couldn't quite get the art of being a retriever right. Each shot, he would run over to the target, and stand in front of it, refusing to come back when called. So I couldn't shoot another round until I ran to the target and forcibly dragged him back.
Later we also found out he was probably the only spaniel in the world who couldn't swim. I had a small kayak that I would paddle out on the lake, and Trouble would stand on the small forward deck. One day he fell in, but I wasn't worried, because he was, after all, a spaniel. Well, he sank like a rock, and I had to jump in and drag him back to the dam and perform what we called in those days "artificial respiration." That was Trouble's last kayak ride.