Today, for example, he was found by the neighbour walking along her wall, cat like, the wrong side of our fence, as well as numerous other barriers.
I'd gone to work with him left locked in doors.
Gill gathered her cats up for fear they might eat him, and plonked him back on the right side of the boundary.
Later Dad arrived to feed and walk Frank, and he was back on the sofa, chuckling.
This evening Gill came over to tell us - otherwise we would never have known.
Later the puppy trainer informed us we were heading for trouble.
A combination of letting Frank sleep in our room and sit on the sofa, followed by shutting him in the kitchen for a couple of hours, is not, apparently, reconcilable.
Back to square one with the crate training, she said, not even trying to cover her voice.
Fuck off, Frank said, almost loud enough to hear.
I'll move out first. Gill's place is a possibility.