My kid sister (she's now a full professor at a real university; who knew?) has a little doggy that's part Border Collie and part helicopter. Dog's name is Fash. It's pronounced Fosh, and the name is an Irish word for trouble. Since the sister and the dog live in Ireland, this makes a certain amount of sense.
Fash plays fetch with more energy than I've ever seen in a dog. When I met her nine years ago, you could throw a stick up a 60-degree slope and Fash would run up and get it, over and over again, until my sister would intervene and tell me to cut that crap out.
Dahlin' Daughta was just over there for a visit, and she reports that at the age of 14, when most dogs are retired and have taken up needlepoint, Fash still routinely digs out under the back fence and roams the town, and she'll still play fetch till your arm falls off.
Sometimes I want to grow up to be Fash, so I'll have that kind of energy at that age. Sometimes I think I DID grow up to be Fash, since I always seem to be fetching some damn thing for somebody.