He woke up at 5, and began to whine, cry, whimper, scratch, and bump.
We put him out on the back-yard leash. He was out there for three hours. We brought him in around eight. He ran through the kitchen, looked at us, ran over to the living room, and pissed on the rug. Voluminously.
He went back out (actually, I picked him up by the collar and threw his ass out the back door), on the yard leash so that he could not reach the doors, because then he would hammer and scratch and hammer and scratch and whine and cry and hammer and scratch.
We started looking for someplace where we could put him up for adoption.
We ended up making an appointment with a behavioral trainer, for Wednesday. If he can't show us how to get control of this situation, we are going to lose this dog. I can't take it any more. I'm exhausted, Kate's sick, nothing in the house or the car is safe. I put up with him alone for a month, and couldn't teach him a thing. Kate took him to another house for a visit, and he tore around the place and whined for hours and injured the hostess. When he's calm, he's cute and affectionate and playful. When he's not calm, he's the Tasmanian devil. If we can't learn how to turn him into a good dog, he's heading for someone else's house, or a laboratory, and that would just break us.
A formal malediction on Kate's idiot nephew, who bought a brain-damaged specimen of a stubborn breed of dog at a puppy-farm, spent a year neglecting it, and left us with an intractable, uncontrollable, intolerable animal.