Cooper

Cooper doesn't just enter a room - he arrives, like someone fired him out of a confetti cannon labeled "GOOD BOY ENERGY." <br/>He's three years old, healthy, and built like a hound who spent his puppyhood secretly training for the powerlifting team. <br/>He doesn't walk so much as launch, and if he could talk, every sentence would end in at least three exclamation points.<br/>With people, his love language is full-body enthusiasm. He jumps, he spins, he tries to hug you mid-stride, and he somehow manages to make it both endearing and mildly hazardous. <br/>With other dogs, he goes to the end of the leash like he's auditioning for a megaphone commercial: "I LOVE YOU, YOU'RE AMAZING, WE'RE BEST FRIENDS NOW, LET'S PLAY FOREVER." <br/>He's not aggressive, just wildly social and powered by an internal generator that has never once shut off.<br/>Cooper needs a fenced yard and either (a) one single Olympic-caliber athlete, or (b) an energetic family who hikes, plays, and embraces "everyone's finally worn out" as a household mantra. <br/>Once the zoomies are properly exorcised, he becomes a 75-pound snuggle blanket who believes downtime is a team sport.<br/>Cooper didn't get this way by accident. He came from a cruelty case, underfed and ignored. Now that he's safe, well-fed, and finally allowed to live like a real dog, he is fully committed to joy. Not obnoxious, not "hyper for hyper's sake" - just a dog making up for lost time with the enthusiasm of someone who got a second chance and refuses to waste it.<br/>If you've got the stamina for adventure and the desire to end the day with a giant, grateful cuddle buddy, Cooper is your guy.<br/>Animal Aid Society<br/>80 Butler Farm Road, Hampton, VA<br/>Open to visitors 9am-noon, every day including weekends and holidays.<br/>Interested? Come for a visit any day of the week - 365 days a year between 9am - 12pm. Hope to see you soon!<br/><br/>PLEASE NOTE: Animal Aid Society observes a 40 mile adoption radius to facilitate post adoption support and follow ups.

Cooper doesn't just enter a room - he arrives, like someone fired him out of a confetti cannon labeled "GOOD BOY ENERGY."
He's three years old, healthy, and built like a hound who spent his puppyhood secretly training for the powerlifting team.
He doesn't walk so much as launch, and if he could talk, every sentence would end in at least three exclamation points.
With people, his love language is full-body enthusiasm. He jumps, he spins, he tries to hug you mid-stride, and he somehow manages to make it both endearing and mildly hazardous.
With other dogs, he goes to the end of the leash like he's auditioning for a megaphone commercial: "I LOVE YOU, YOU'RE AMAZING, WE'RE BEST FRIENDS NOW, LET'S PLAY FOREVER."
He's not aggressive, just wildly social and powered by an internal generator that has never once shut off.
Cooper needs a fenced yard and either (a) one single Olympic-caliber athlete, or (b) an energetic family who hikes, plays, and embraces "everyone's finally worn out" as a household mantra.

Cooper doesn't just enter a room - he arrives, like someone fired him out of a confetti cannon labeled "GOOD BOY ENERGY."
He's three years old, healthy, and built like a hound who spent his puppyhood secretly training for the powerlifting team.
He doesn't walk so much as launch, and if he could talk, every sentence would end in at least three exclamation points.
With people, his love language is full-body enthusiasm. He jumps, he spins, he tries to hug you mid-stride, and he somehow manages to make it both endearing and mildly hazardous.
With other dogs, he goes to the end of the leash like he's auditioning for a megaphone commercial: "I LOVE YOU, YOU'RE AMAZING, WE'RE BEST FRIENDS NOW, LET'S PLAY FOREVER."
He's not aggressive, just wildly social and powered by an internal generator that has never once shut off.
Cooper needs a fenced yard and either (a) one single Olympic-caliber athlete, or (b) an energetic family who hikes, plays, and embraces "everyone's finally worn out" as a household mantra.
Once the zoomies are properly exorcised, he becomes a 75-pound snuggle blanket who believes downtime is a team sport.
Cooper didn't get this way by accident. He came from a cruelty case, underfed and ignored. Now that he's safe, well-fed, and finally allowed to live like a real dog, he is fully committed to joy. Not obnoxious, not "hyper for hyper's sake" - just a dog making up for lost