When it comes to dogs, it’s the people who need training.

For several years now, mine had been a two-dog household. There’s 18-year-old Oliver (full name The Diabolically Clever Yet Tragically Socially Inept Prof. Oliver Wendell Puppypants, Esq.) who was my first-ever dog. A friend found him running loose, unchipped and untagged, on a North County country road when he was about 3. Now in his so-called Golden Years, Oliver is the canine equivalent of the old man shaking his fist at a group of kids and shouting, “Get off my lawn!” Then there’s Nigel (full name, Nigel, the Baron Von expletive deleted), who is the Zoolander of dogs; dim and pretty, with the softest ears ever, he has survived bolting out the front door and running under moving cars twice since he came to us about eight years ago from a family who loved him very much, but due to economic circumstances, could no longer care for him.

In the middle, we also took in Scruffles, an absolute trainwreck of an elderly terrier, from Peace of Mind Dog Rescue. When the POMDR volunteer dropped him off, she shouted over her shoulder, as she sprinted to her car toward freedom, that Scruffles had “a slight limp.” Watching him stumble around the living room, I thought, “Expletive deleted, that is not a slight limp.” POMDR paid for a vet’s visit, where it was determined that Scruffles had a heart problem, a liver problem, a pancreas problem, a vision problem, a hearing problem and arthritis they couldn’t treat with good drugs because of the liver problem. He lost some weight, ate donut holes injected with liquid cannabis and the limp mostly went away.

The vet had told us Scruffles would likely only live six months. He was only off by about two years. Scruffles finally died at the age of 18, after losing interest in eating and drinking. I sobbed incoherently as we left the veterinarian’s office without him, scaring a little girl who was there with her new puppy in the process.

None of those dogs, though, prepared me for “The Christmas Menace.” She is 3 years old, three feet long and about 12 inches high – and of those, only five of them account for her stubby legs. She weighs a chonky 35 pounds, has one blue eye and one that’s half brown and blue, and a double-thick merle coat that she sheds everywhere and on everything.

Her full name: Ethel the Corgi Who Has Seen Some Shit.

Ethel was being fostered by a friend who has three other dogs and found that her first corgi had taken to bullying the newcomer. When my husband saw Ethel’s picture online a few weeks before Christmas, he said, “That. That is what I want for Christmas.” An application process with Animal Friends Rescue Project (see story, p. 32) ensued and, after AFRP determined the backyard was secure enough and we had some clue about taking care of a dog, we paid the adoption fee and Ethel came home.

“If I can reach it, I can eat it.”

Ethel was a breeder dog who successfully had one litter, but had to have a C-section to deliver her second litter. When my friend fostered her, she found Ethel was unsocialized – she couldn’t walk up the stairs, for example, because she’d never encountered them before. With a two-story house as her new home, she would need to learn.

We, too, would need to learn. We would need to learn, after she ate my Bass loafers and my Dansko clogs, to not leave shoes out. We would need to learn to remove all remotes, leather goods and electronic cords from the office sofa at night, after she ate my iPad cord, the cable box remote and my husband’s wallet in a single week.

Her ethos seems to be, if I can reach it, I can eat it.

What’s good about a corgi who eats things that aren’t food and sheds everywhere? She met Oliver and her motherly instincts kicked in. She stands by his side as he walks stiffly and slowly to the top of the stairs, where one of us then carries him down to the first floor. She gives up her larger bed to him and tries to fold herself into the small one meant for him. She’s gotten pretty good at walking on a leash, good at pottying outdoors and good at trusting us. She flops on her back for belly rubs and sleeps with her stubby legs in the air, a sign, I am told, that she is secure in her new surroundings.

And if she were a Major League Baseball player, her walk-up music would be “Rebel Girl,” by Bikini Kill.

MARY DUAN writes Local Spin for the Weekly. Reach her at mary@mcweekly.com or follow her at twitter.com/maryrduan