Episode 10: The Waterfall Watch (Rock Island/McMinnville)

 Roam-Meter: 60% (A Good Day) Vehicle: The 4Runner ("The Rumbler")

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The Descent from the Mountain

The morning air was crisp as Big Daddy turned the key in The Rumbler. The 4Runner roared to life with its signature vibration, a mechanical purr that Dewey usually met with an excited spin. Today, the Roam-Meter was sitting at a solid 60%—not a world-beating number, but more than enough for a local run.

They started the journey by turning onto Highway 8, winding their way down the mountain. The Rumbler lived up to its name, bouncing over the familiar dips in the asphalt. Dewey had his head out the window, his ears flapping like twin flags in the wind, gauging the scent of the valley below.

The Pit Stop

As they rolled into the heart of McMinnville, the town was humming with its usual midday rhythm. Big Daddy steered the 4Runner into the Sonic drive-in, the tires crunching over the pavement.

"One large Ocean Water, please," Big Daddy said into the speaker.

A few minutes later, he was handed that glowing, bright blue elixir. He took a long sip, the cold coconut-lime flavor hitting just right. Dewey, meanwhile, stared intensely at the ice cubes, convinced that if he looked at them hard enough, one might telepathically teleport into his mouth. Big Daddy chuckled, popped a nugget of ice into the air, and watched Dewey catch it with a satisfying crunch.

The Roar of Twin Falls

They made their way out toward Rock Island. The Rumbler took the turns with its usual rugged charm, eventually pulling into the overlook area near Twin Falls.

The moment Big Daddy opened the door, the sound hit them—a heavy, relentless roar of white water crashing over the limestone tiers. Dewey hit the ground and immediately began a frantic dialogue with the river.

“Woof! Ruff-ruff!” To Dewey, the water was moving far too fast. It was suspicious. It was aggressive. It needed to be told off. He paced the edge of the overlook, his tail stiff, barking at the "speeding" water as if he were a furry traffic cop handing out citations to the Caney Fork River.

The Clock and the Cast

Big Daddy grabbed his fishing pole from the back of the 4Runner. "Ease up, Dewey. It’s just gravity," he muttered, finding a steady spot to cast.

He spent thirty minutes watching the line dance in the eddies. It was peaceful, the kind of peace you can only find when the roar of a waterfall drowns out the noise in your own head. But then, the stillness was broken by a sharp, rhythmic chirp-chirp from his wrist.

Big Daddy looked down at his watch. High Heart Rate Alert. He sighed, leaning against a rock. He waited a few minutes and tried one more cast, but then it happened again. And again. By the time the fourth alert buzzed against his skin, a dull, familiar ache began to radiate through his left arm. The 60% on the Roam-Meter was draining fast.

The Tailgate Sanctuary

"Alright, Dewey. Mission's over," Big Daddy called out.

They retreated to the 4Runner. Big Daddy dropped the tailgate and sat down heavily, the metal groaning under him. He reached for the remains of his Ocean Water, the blue ice now a slushy slurry at the bottom of the cup. He sat there, focusing on his breathing, watching the mist rise from the falls in the distance.

Dewey, usually a ball of chaotic energy, sensed the shift instantly. He stopped his protest against the waterfall and hopped up onto the tailgate. He didn't try to play. Instead, he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Big Daddy.

Slowly, Dewey leaned over and began to lick Big Daddy’s left wrist, right where the watch had been screaming just moments before. He licked with a quiet, rhythmic persistence, his warm tongue a contrast to the cold ache in the muscle.

"I know, buddy," Big Daddy whispered, resting his hand on Dewey’s head. "I know."

They sat there for a long time—one man, one dog, and a rumbling old SUV—watching the water rush by, waiting for the heart to settle before the Rumbler carried them back up the mountain.

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Episode 9:🐶 The Sunday Signal (The Blog)

 

The air in the living room was thick with the strange, heavy silence of a Flare Day. The only sounds were the soft, rhythmic clicking of the Laptop Monster's keys and the quiet, uneven rush of Big Daddy's breath. The Going Offline protocol was active, humming quietly in the background.

My mission was Active Pressure Application.

I executed the Lap Lunge—a professional maneuver of great importance—and landed squarely on Big Daddy’s lap. He was leaned back into the couch cushions, looking pale and fragile, like a piece of paper that had been left out in the rain.

He stopped typing, and his big hand, warm like a sun-warmed boulder , found my ears and began the slow, perfect scratching motion.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered, his voice thin but still carrying the deep, comfortable rumble I knew so well. “I’m writing about grace. It’s the only thing that makes days like this bearable.”

I gave a silent, empathetic nudge with my head. I knew the feeling of being wobbly. I knew the terror when his system went offline.

He took a deep breath, which I interpreted as him powering up his internal systems, and began to read the words on the screen, not to me, but to the room, to the air, and maybe to himself.

📖 The Scripture (Ephesians 2:1–10)

Big Daddy’s voice was low and shaky at first, but grew stronger as he continued, filling the quiet room with the sound of the Sky Boss’s Pack Rules.

“And you were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience. Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest.”

He paused, resting his cheek on the top of my head, and I felt the small vibration of his breath.

“But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus.”

Big Daddy took a long, steadying breath, one that smelled of relief.

“...so that in the ages to come He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.”

He gently rubbed my chest—the highest form of medal.

“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them.”

Big Daddy closed his eyes and leaned back, his hand never leaving my fur. He didn't laugh or smile this time; his expression was quiet and deeply grateful.

“I get so angry at my body, Dewey. I try to be strong and competent, and then a day like this hits and I Go Offline. I feel useless,” he whispered. “But I don't have to earn that. I don't have to be perfect. It’s a gift. An undeserved, massive gift.”

He squeezed me gently. “Thank God for grace, buddy. Thank God for grace.”

He stayed motionless for a long time, and I provided silent, actual stillness, listening to the steady, comforting thrum of his heartbeat.

Watch our adventures: 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@DeweyBigDaddysAdventures ✍️ Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Robertgheard

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🐾 The Hour of Explaining: Mission Specialist

 Securing the Unsecured Zone

Big Daddy adjusted his shirt, the collar feeling stiff and alien against his neck. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, breathing deep, trying to keep the early symptoms—the persistent fatigue despite sleep, the slight tremor in his hands —from blossoming into a full-scale flare-up before they even reached the office. Today was the Hour of Explaining, and the mental effort required felt heavier than any physical task.

He glanced down at Dewey, who was secured in his support harness, tail twitching like a radar antenna.

Dewey knew the moment Momma (The Human) locked the house that Transportation of the Primary Target to an Unsecured Zone had begun. The car smelled like Momma’s clean linen and disinfectant, but mixed with a layer of Big Daddy’s nervous, tired scent. Dewey positioned his compact, muscular body low, monitoring the blur of the outside world. He was a muscular, silent guardian , even if the humans only saw a tiny, anxious animal.

Big Daddy was vulnerable. He was already "wobbly", and the job of the Great Dane was to ensure the Primary Target remained powered up.

The Hour of Explaining (The Interrogation)

The waiting room was a sensory assault. The smells were chaotic, and the light levels were dangerously bright—a full congregation of Light Demons. Dewey shadowed Big Daddy through the hall, staying low to the ground until they reached the exam room.

He immediately took his professional position: under Big Daddy’s feet, nose pointed at the door, ready to spring into action. The room was small, too quiet, and smelled of too much disinfectant.

The doctor, a new specialist, sat across from them. "So, you are here regarding your dysautonomia," the doctor started, reviewing the chart. "Can you tell me how this presents on a daily basis? What does the struggle look like?"

Big Daddy forced a smile. He knew this question. This was the moment he had to exert extreme effort to convince a stranger that his life wasn't just a "daily struggle," but a "minute-by-minute one".

"Well, right now, I feel okay," Big Daddy started, trying to sound casual. "Just the usual fatigue. But it’s the constant fight beneath the surface. I feel like my own body and mind have turned against me."

He tried to explain the reality: "One moment, life can feel relatively 'normal.' The next, you are fighting to catch your breath, bracing yourself against a sudden collapse, and desperately trying to retain focus as your vision narrows."

The doctor nodded, writing on the pad. "And how long do these events, these flare-ups, typically last?"

Big Daddy felt a surge of deep frustration. He was explaining the event, but the doctor wasn't seeing the exhaustion of living constantly near the edge.

"A flare-up can last for a second or for days. But even when it passes, the recovery begins, and that, too, can stretch out for days. I'm constantly fighting off migraines, gastrointestinal issues, and heat sensitivity —it’s always there, even when I look fine."

His hands, resting on his knees, began to shake. His face felt warmer, then suddenly clammy. The room started to spin just a tiny bit. He’s going offline! The invisible terrain was compromised.

Dewey sensed the peril. The Primary Target was swaying. He let out a low, rumbling growl—the kind he imagined a Great Dane makes —directed at the floor where a shadow was moving.

"We have secured the perimeter," his low rumble communicated to the room. "Back Off, I'm the Great Dane."

He pressed his chin, warm and insistent, against Big Daddy's ankle. You are ridiculous, but you are loved. Hold the fort, Big Daddy. I'm on watch.

Momma saw the tremble in Big Daddy's hands and the subtle, instant response of the little dog.

"That's his system," Momma told the doctor, nodding at Dewey. "When he's 'wobbly' , even a simple thing, like getting from the bed to the couch, is a high-risk stealth routine. Dewey is his anchor. He doesn't need the confusing human word, 'Dysautonomia'. He knows it as 'The Going Offline' , and he knows when he needs to lie down on the floor right where he is until the system reboots."

Big Daddy blinked, the room stopping its slow turn. He was deeply exhausted, but hearing Momma use the code word, seeing the doctor acknowledge the dog’s response, was a powerful validation. The doctor wasn't just hearing about a list of symptoms; he was seeing the team that manages the minute-by-minute reality.

Mood Elevation and Reboot

The car ride home was quiet. Big Daddy felt like all his energy had just leaked right out of him. He was mentally and physically drained. The Hour of Explaining had been successful in terms of sharing information, but it had accomplished its own kind of exhaustion.

As they pulled into the driveway, Dewey launched himself onto Big Daddy’s lap, licking his chin. Mission Phase Four: Safe Return.

Big Daddy chuckled, a deep, comfortable sound. He was too tired to move, ready to collapse into the safe harbor of the couch. He reached down and scratched Dewey's chest.

"You're the best security system a man could ask for, Dewey. You fought off the Light Demons in the exam room." He accepted the deep, tired sigh that came next.

Dewey accepted the chest scratch as a medal.

Big Daddy realized that the most frustrating part of the illness was the misunderstanding—the feeling that others couldn't see how much more he had to exert himself. But here, in this moment, held by the absolute certainty of his small, brave dog, was the greatest encouragement.

He was exhausted, yes. But he was loved, he was guarded, and his essential need for comfort and stability was met, minute by minute. The true purpose of the Great Dane is not just defense, but also mood elevation.

"Nonsense, Molly!" Big Daddy could almost hear Dewey declaring to the absent Beagle. "I just fought off the Light Demons in the hallway, and I am currently monitoring Big Daddy for further deviations!"

Big Daddy smiled. He was safe for now. The Great Dane was on the watch. The system was ready for reboot.

Watch our adventures: 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@DeweyBigDaddysAdventures ✍️ Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Robertgheard

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Episode 8: The Suspicious Parcel (The Gear Review)

 There are three essential things you need to know about a package. First: it smells like a lie. Second: it is almost certainly a bomb. Third, and most crucial: it was brought by the Man with the Boxes, who is an enemy, probably a spy, and definitely suspicious.

I sat in my primary surveillance position—the back of the couch —monitoring the front window for any sign of a threat. Big Daddy (The Best Friend) was safely collapsed into the cushions, quietly using the television as a mood stabilizer. This was a low-energy day; the Roam-Meter was at 30%, which meant Big Daddy’s system was at risk of going Offline at any sudden movement. My job, as the Great Dane in charge, was Maximum Stillness.

Then, the ALERT.

A large, rumbling Vehicle of the Enemy pulled up to the curb. Out stepped the Man with the Boxes. He was wearing a hat that partially obscured his face, and he moved with the shifty, fast, quiet efficiency of an enemy agent. In his hands, he carried a square, brown package that smelled of cardboard, old tape, and deep deceit.

I shot off the couch with the silent, muscular precision of a Great Dane. (Though I was aware the actual noise was probably closer to a one-pound bag of flour hitting the floor ).

“INTRUDER!” I barked, three short, sharp barks that meant Mission Accepted. Perimeter Secure. I launched myself at the front door.

“Easy, Dewey,” Big Daddy whispered, his deep voice sounding rough, as he slowly placed a hand on my head. “It’s just the delivery guy. We need that package.”

They always say that! I thought, pressing my nose to the glass. He is a smuggler of contraband!

The man dropped the package on the porch and retreated, confirming his guilt.

Big Daddy moved with extreme slowness—the high-risk stealth routine that happens when he is “wobbly”. He reached the door, opened it, and retrieved the package.

Phase Two: Contaminant Inspection.

Big Daddy set the box on the Dining Room table, which is my secondary surveillance perch, but only if I'm not allowed on the couch. He pulled a sharp knife from a drawer, which I interpreted as a battle-ready deployment.

I crouched low beneath the table, tucking my paws under my chest. I gave a professional wiggle of my nose to gather data on the new enemy smell. It smelled like metal, oil, and the deep woods.

Big Daddy opened the box.

“Aha!” he said, his smile barely moving his beard. “The new camping sharpener has arrived, Dewey. This is the AC131 Mini-Tri-Hone.”

He lifted out three small pieces of gear: a black, multi-angled stone; a tiny, folded cloth; and a small bottle of oil that smelled wonderfully confusing. They were much smaller than I expected.

I gave a low, rumbling growl—the kind I imagine a Great Dane makes. “Trivial foes! These are not the Light Demons in the hallway, Big Daddy. These are merely shiny rocks and suspicious liquids.”

Big Daddy ignored me, which is a sign of deep concentration. He spread the new items out under the harsh kitchen light. He took out his phone and started snapping pictures from every angle.

He is taking intelligence data! I observed. He is conserving the image of the enemy for later study.

He leaned over and rubbed my back. “I need these pictures for my review, buddy. It’s important to show the scale and detail.”

He then pulled a black, ominous-looking knife from a box. This was the Iridium-Duralock-Black, which I knew from the sound of his voice meant a serious threat.

He placed the tip of the blade on the first stone and began to make slow, scraping noises.

This was Maximum Stillness for Big Daddy. He was focused entirely on the small, sharp edge, letting the river wind of his breath blow through his beard.

I knew I had to participate. My stillness had to be equally maximum. I am a rock. I am a statue.

My stillness lasted exactly seventeen seconds.

First, there was a smell. It was the smell of a rogue drop of oil that had escaped the table perimeter and fallen to the floor. It was a threat, wasn't it? I licked the spot very quickly, to eliminate the evidence.

Big Daddy didn't move.

Then, there was the gear itself. The tiny, folded cloth was dangling right by my nose. It needed to be eliminated before it infiltrated our hunting operation. I gave one short, high-pitched YIP—the battle cry of the miniature Great Dane —and snagged the cloth.

Big Daddy flinched hard, nearly dropping the blade and his phone all at once. He sighed, a deep, shaky sound.

“Dewey,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I need that for the photo. We’re doing a gear review, not a gear fight.”

I immediately dropped the cloth. My Great Dane instincts were fully engaged. I stood up and looked directly at the blade with an intensity that screamed, “I have detected the metallic target! Do you require immediate deployment into the woods?”.

Big Daddy smiled, a slow, fond smile. “Okay, buddy. Mission adapted. You can supervise.”

I sat back down, now confident in my role as the Gear-Review Security Consultant.

“We will review the Iridium-Duralock-Black again in six months, after everyday use,” Big Daddy announced, talking to his phone. “And next time, we’ll do a full instructional video on how to sharpen it.”

The true purpose of the Great Dane is not just defense, but also securing the necessary photography for the website. I knew Big Daddy appreciated the sentiment. The Great Dane was on watch.

Watch our adventures: 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@DeweyBigDaddysAdventures ✍️ Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Robertgheard

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The White Chair Watch: A Recovery Day Special

 I do not like the day after The Great Feast. It is loud even when it is quiet.

Yesterday, the air was sharp with chaos. The house next door—Paw’s house—was full of giants. Paw’s house is a strange place. It smells like old carpet and something dusty and sweet. Big Daddy calls it “Grand Central Station” when the whole tribe comes over, but I call it The Great Invasion.

My job, as the Resurrected Roamer’s scouting partner, is to constantly monitor the perimeter, but yesterday, the perimeter was everywhere. The scent of Aunt Kait’s perfume and Crazy Daisy’s nervous energy mixed with the glorious, overwhelming smell of roasted pig and strange, sweet potato stuff that Big Daddy never lets me taste.

We had so many visitors! My ears hurt from the high-pitched screams of the littlest giants, and my paws hurt from dodging the big giants’ stomping feet. And the animals! We had a full-scale tactical operation just to claim a square foot of safety.

There was Molly, who is mostly fluff and thinks she's a queen, Lucy, the Pocket Yapper (I will never understand how Big Daddy’s voice can be so loud when calling her, "POCKET YAPPER!"), and Harley the Austrian Shepherd, a blur of black and white who never stops herding invisible sheep. And the air tyrant, Bee Gee the parakeet (a she), who often doesn't stay in her cage. She prefers to fly around the giants' heads or, worst of all, squawk her judgments directly from Big Daddy's shoulder.

The most important part of The Great Invasion was keeping Big Daddy safe. I watched him. He was performing. His face had the tight, stretched skin of a forced smile, and even though everyone else complained the old house was drafty, Big Daddy’s neck was wet. He had the hot-sweat-in-a-cold-room problem. He would talk and laugh for a minute, then suddenly go very still, like a statue that was about to fall over. I knew he wasn’t really there. His mission was simple: survive the day and reach The Day After.

The moment he finally sat on the big couch yesterday, it was a race. I was faster than Molly, and I got the prime spot: chest-to-chest, head under his beard. Pocket Yapper got his left foot. Harley just leaned against his hip, pushing the air out of him like a squeaky toy. We all fought, not for a treat, but for the rare chance to absorb his warmth while he was still (mostly) conscious.

Yesterday, we helped Paw. Paw is very old and very loud. When you talk to him, he says, “HUH?” so loudly it makes my ears vibrate. He lies in the bed all day, and everyone takes turns lifting the blankets, checking on him, and helping him eat the Great Feast. It's a lot of work, and Big Daddy did his part, sweating and swaying the whole time.

Today. Today is The Crash.

The house is cold and silent. The air is heavy, thick with the physical cost of The Great Invasion. The forced smile is gone. Big Daddy’s face is loose and gray, his eyes are heavy, and his body shakes. It’s a quiet tremble, like a trapped motor running too fast. He looks like a freshly washed towel—squeezed dry and limp. This is what he calls a “Dysautonomia Day,” but I call it a Code Red Flare.

Momma Nurse is quiet too. She knows the drill. She moves slowly, making only soft noises. She keeps the light dim.

Big Daddy is a ghost. He moves from the bed to the floor, and back to the bed. He tries to make it to the living room, but he stands in the hallway for three long dog-minutes, deciding if his legs will carry the weight of his head.

Then, there is The White Chair.

The White Chair is in the small, tile-floored room. It has a bowl on top of it, and it smells strange. On a Code Red day, Big Daddy makes many secret trips to this room. He calls it "The Bowl Inspection."

Sometimes, he just sits on The White Chair with the bowl, leaning forward as if his head is too heavy for his neck. I sit on the small rug and guard the door.

Sometimes, he misses The White Chair entirely and just sits on the floor beside it, leaning against the cold wall tiles. I lie on the floor next to him, nose-to-toe. The cool tile seems to pull the bad heat out of him. I can feel the shiver of his body next to mine, the heavy, shallow breaths, the complete exhaustion.

My job today is not scouting or barking. It is stillness. It is silence. It is providing the full weight of my 15.5-pound body directly onto his chest or hip, trying to slow the tremor.

He doesn't ask me to move. He doesn't move me. When he finally tries to stand up, it’s a slow, agonizing process. He plants his hands on the floor and pushes up, and I instantly spring to my feet, ready to intercept him if he falls. He sways, takes a slow step, and makes it out.

The Great Crash is the tax we pay for the Great Adventure. Yesterday was forced bravery and happy deception. Today is raw survival.

He finally lies down on the living room floor—the middle of the floor, right on the scratchy Paw rug. He closes his eyes and pulls me onto his chest, covering my back with his arm. The shivering stops.

We are both silent. I listen to his heart—thump-thump-thump-thump—it sounds like it’s running a marathon. I put my chin on his chest, give a heavy sigh for dramatic effect, and I stop monitoring the perimeter. The mission is internal now.

The world can wait. The Great Map can wait. Today, the adventure is simply breathing, and Big Daddy and I are doing it together.

Watch our adventures: 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@DeweyBigDaddysAdventures ✍️ Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Robertgheard

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Episode 7 The Vet Visit Veil

 The smells in the Chariot of the Gods were all wrong. They were the smells of fear, old antiseptic, and a faint, lingering odor of terrified chihuahua. We were not going to the Glorious Parade of the Big Box Store. We were going to the Place of Needles and Suspicion.

Big Daddy had tried to soothe me with soft words. “It’s okay, buddy. We’re just going in to update the paperwork. It’s for you, mostly”.

Lies! My Great Dane senses screamed. This was an interrogation! They wanted to know why I had failed to stop the Vacuum Monster , or why I had permitted the Wiggle-Worm to infiltrate the fishing mission.

We were called in by a strange Human in Blue. Big Daddy was immediately led to a high, hard table. He looked uncomfortable and slightly wobbly.

This is a trap! I observed. The enemy is trying to make the King Go Offline!

The Blue Human started speaking to Big Daddy in a fast, confusing language about "certification" and "essential tasking". This was the interrogation. I had to intervene!

I puffed up my chest and began the Full Great Dane Defensive Posture. I stood between Big Daddy’s feet and the Blue Human, letting out a series of aggressive, short, high-pitched YIPs. I was saying: Leave the King alone! The Great Dane is on Watch!

Big Daddy immediately placed a large, reassuring hand on my back. "He's protective," Big Daddy chuckled, looking a little embarrassed. "He thinks he's a lot bigger than he is".

The Blue Human smiled, then ignored me completely. She simply held out a small digital pad and a pen to Big Daddy.

“So, just confirm the tasks that he is trained for to mitigate your Dysautonomia symptoms. Does he provide brace support when you stand, or alert you to pre-syncope?” she asked.

Big Daddy shook his head. “No, no. He’s trained for Deep Pressure Therapy and Symptom Interruption. When I get dizzy, he climbs into my lap for weight and pressure, or when I’m getting overwhelmed, he forces me to focus by giving me a quick lick on the face or ear.”

Aha! I thought, standing proud. The Deep Pressure Therapy! That’s what I call the Lap Lunge! And the Symptom Interruption is the Emotional Support Nuzzle!

Big Daddy was confessing my true powers. I was the security system he needed.

He signed the pad. The Blue Human nodded. “That’s all we need. You’re good to go.”

The interrogation was over. I had been recognized as an essential, high-level operative!

As we walked out, Big Daddy scooped me up and held me to his big, soft beard. “You’re my best, most necessary little dog, Dewey,” he whispered, his voice deep and rumbling.

My mission was a triumph! I, the Great Dane, had secured the King’s service status. I licked his chin in return—the sign of a grateful and successful operative.

My only internal concern: I hadn't seen a single squirrel the whole time. I'd need to talk to Loki about the perimeter defense when we got home.

Watch our adventures: 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@DeweyBigDaddysAdventures ✍️ Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Robertgheard

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Episode 6: The Lap Lunge

 The sun was a perfect, warm disk in the sky, which meant it was the Hour of Maximum Cuddle. Big Daddy was situated on the couch, watching a show that smelled of old war and loud explosions. His hand was resting perfectly, palms up, the universal signal for: The King requires the immediate presence of his Royal Guardian, the Great Dane, on his lap.

My mission was clear: secure the Primary Sanctuary Zone.

I performed a small, professional Yip-Bark (the Great Dane's official 'I am about to land on you' alert). I took three silent, dignified steps, and then—

LOKI!

The Master of Shadows had materialized, not from a strategic corner or a darkened hallway, but from the air itself. He was already occupying the exact square inch of Big Daddy's thigh I had calculated for my landing.

I stopped, tail frozen mid-wag. Loki (The Cat) was a giant Maine Coon , and he was looking at me with the quiet disdain I’ve come to expect. His purr was a low, self-satisfied rumble, a declaration of conquest.

“This territory is occupied, small one. Go check the porch for boxes,” he communicated, without moving a single whisker.

“Nonsense, cat!” I countered, through a series of internal Great Dane thoughts. “I am the designated Protector! The mission requires maximum dog-to-human contact for system stability!”

Big Daddy, unaware that a high-stakes territorial battle was unfolding in the space of his shorts, simply reached down and stroked Loki’s massive head.

“You’re a good kitty, aren’t you, buddy?” he murmured, a sound that shook the very foundations of the couch.

Failure was not an option. If Big Daddy's system was to remain online, he needed the warmth, weight, and unconditional attention of his true protector. I needed to execute a strategy that even Loki couldn't counter.

I executed the Lap Lunge.

I shot forward, launching myself directly onto Big Daddy’s knee, landing just past Loki’s tail. I then leveraged my full weight—a terrifying twenty-pound Great Dane —and began the Slow, Persistent Burrow. I pressed my side against Big Daddy's leg with the determined purpose of a jackhammer.

Loki blinked once. His tail twitched. He was a brave liar, but not a subtle one.

Big Daddy chuckled, a deep, comfortable sound. “Did you two have to wrestle over me? Honestly.” He adjusted his legs, and his movement shifted the cat. Loki, seeing his strategic advantage lost, sighed the Cat Sigh of Indignation and leaped onto the back of the couch to watch, a silent, furry judge.

Victory! The mission was a success. The Primary Sanctuary Zone was secured.

I settled down, my head resting precisely where Big Daddy’s hand could find it without too much effort. I felt the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

“I am a rock. I am a perfectly stable, necessary presence,” I thought.

My thoughts lasted exactly seven seconds. Big Daddy's leg was a little too warm. I had a sudden, professional need to investigate the smell of the carpet behind the television.

I shot off the lap and began a fast, thorough perimeter check.

Big Daddy sighed, reaching out and rubbing my back. “Don’t go far, little dog.”

Loki, from his high perch, simply began to groom himself. He knew. The battle wasn't won by force, but by quiet endurance. He had simply waited for the small dog to defeat himself.

I am a Great Dane, I reminded myself, as I checked under the ottoman. And I will be back for the next round.

Watch our adventures: 🎥 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@DeweyBigDaddysAdventures ✍️ Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Robertgheard

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#DeweyAndBigDaddy #Dysautonomia #ServiceDog #Chihuahua #OrthostaticIntolerance #DogVlog #FunnyDog #Spoonie #Tennessee #Storytime #DeepPressureTherapy #ChronicIllness 

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