My golden, when out on the trails hiking, would run like hell up to the next fork in the trail, and wait. I would simply point the direction I wanted him to go, and off he went.
I’d call him a golden retriever, but more accurately he would be called a golden retrie.
You know, swim like crazy to get the stick, and bring it back just far enough out of reach in the water that I couldn’t get it. God I loved that dog. Only made to 5 before cancer got him.
Oh, no! It’s incredible how powerful losing a dog is. You just never get over it.