Episode 12: Big Transitions, Tall Tales, and Cookie Dough

 

The mission to secure the perimeter had been compromised all week because the core structure of our pack was fractured. Momma wasn't home. She hadn't been pulling her usual long shifts caring for humans, either—she had been locked down in the hospital for a whole week dealing with some scary heart problems. My anxiety levels were at an all-time high, which is exactly why Big Daddy designated me as the official riding shotgun companion when it was finally time to spring her.

We pulled up to the launch pad in the Chariot of the Gods, and the second the door opened and Momma got in, I went into full-blown tactical affection mode. I was climbing all over her, whining, and giving her every ounce of love I had stored up.

"Dewey was very upset that we have not been with him all week, so I had to bring him," Big Daddy explained, adjusting the wheel.

Momma buried her face in my fur, hugging me tight. "I am sure he was. I missed him so much."

Once the initial celebration cooled down, the humans started talking in that serious tone they use when major operational changes are coming.

"Doctor says you need to make some changes," Big Daddy said, keeping his eyes on the road.

Momma let out a heavy sigh. "Ugh, I know. I have another week or two off, then I will feel better."

"He was referring to your diet and not working your body so hard at work—not when you were going back," Big Daddy countered gently. "I wish you could retire."

"I can go part-time in a few years and still keep our insurance," Momma replied, trying to find a compromise.

"We should include planning for that along with the other needed changes," Big Daddy insisted.

The ride home went fast, mostly because the pack was just relieved to be back within our established territory. The second we breached the perimeter, Momma and Big Daddy went straight to the master quarters to recharge their batteries. Molly was incredibly excited to see them too, doing her classic beagle tail-wag before finding a spot to settle in.

Porch Strategy Sessions

After a much-needed family nap, the operational debrief resumed outside. We all moved out to the porch swing to enjoy the cool evening air. The seating arrangement was precise: Big Daddy and Momma were locked close together, I secured the vital middle sector right between them, and Molly took up her defensive post right at their feet.

I listened closely to the word "changes." Personally, I hoped "changes" was code for an immediate increase in daily playtime and a higher frequency of premium marrow bones.

As the swing swayed, Big Daddy and Momma both looked over at the empty handrail. That was Loki’s spot. The place where our fierce, legendary counselor used to perch while keeping guard over the yard. The void he left felt heavy, but it seemed to spark something in Big Daddy’s mind.

"What if we made things more self-sufficient around here?" Big Daddy mused, breaking the silence.

Momma looked over at him, skeptical. "What do you mean? We can barely do what we need to as it is."

"That's what I mean," Big Daddy explained, leaning back. "We can make adjustments in our schedule, habits, and property to help us better manage our time and health while maybe saving some money. Slow changes. A few investments while you are working full-time may help us later on in life."

Momma rocked the swing slightly. "What slow changes are you referring to anyway?"

"I don't know yet exactly, but I'm thinking on it," Big Daddy admitted. "I do know if we can lower our grocery bill and figure out how to get a little more exercise that doesn't make me pass out, that would be a start. Something that would keep our minds and bodies busy without overdoing it."

Momma smiled, shaking her head. "Ok, Ichabod Crane. When you come up with something, let me know."

"Ichabod Crane?" Big Daddy asked, confused.

CRANE?! My ears went into full radar alert. Did someone just say there was a giant, long-legged invading bird in our airspace?!

I launched myself off the porch swing like a rocket, tearing out into the yard and barking at the top of my lungs to neutralize the threat. Molly didn't even lift her head from the porch floor; she just watched me sprint past with an expression of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

Back on the swing, Momma laughed. "Yeah, Ichabod Crane. Because he was always fainting."

"Oh, yeah," Big Daddy mumbled, sounding a little disappointed. "I was hoping you were referring to my height and stature."

Momma snorted. "Tall and lanky? I think not. More like Homer Simpson."

Big Daddy groaned. "D'oh!"

Down on the porch floor, Molly’s ears suddenly perked up. Her eyes snapped wide open as she looked around the deck.

"Did someone say cookie dough?" she grumbled.

Episode 11: The Quiet After the Prowl: Saying Goodbye to a Legend

 

The dirt felt heavy under the evergreens in the backyard. Our whole pack stood there together—me, Molly, Momma, Kaitlyn, and Big Daddy. We had just finished covering up Loki in his final resting place, and the air felt entirely too quiet. Loki was the undisputed king of the yard, and losing him left a massive void.

As we turned to walk away from the trees, everyone was visibly upset. To break the heavy silence, Big Daddy started talking about the time Loki absolutely surprised us by bringing a whole rabbit right into the house.

Momma shuddered, still looking a little grossed out just remembering it. "Oh, don't remind me!" she said.

But that was just Loki. He was our hunter and our protector, and bringing home trophies was his way of showing he was on the job. We all walked back toward the house enjoying the memory, but the big question hung in the air: what were we going to do now without our lookout?

Big Daddy shook his head firmly. "No more cats, Momma. We could never replace that boy."

"Yes, you're right," Momma sighed, looking out over the empty yard. "But..."

"No buts," Big Daddy cut in gently. "You can't replace Loki. Besides, I don't even like cats. He was just special."

We all needed a change of scenery to clear our heads, so Momma, Big Daddy, and I piled into the Chariot of the Gods and drove down to River Front Park. We stopped by our favorite taco stand, Floy De Mayo, and took our food over to a bench by the water to watch the ducks and the geese.

Big Daddy and Momma sat on the bench, pinching off little pieces of their tortillas to toss to the birds. On any normal day, I would have been straining at the leash, desperate to chase every single duck straight into the river. But today? I was just too upset to care. I didn't even budge. I just watched them float by, feeling the weight of the day.

We sat there in a long moment of silence, listening to the water and the birds.

Finally, Momma broke the quiet. She looked over at Big Daddy and said softly, "Wouldn't a kitten bring some excitement?"

Big Daddy looked back at her, his voice serious but calm. "Momma, I pass out several times a month and go through flare events more often than that. My blood pressure is never low, and neither is my heart rate. I don't need excitement."

Momma nodded slowly, understanding. "You're right, you're right."

She leaned her shoulder against Big Daddy for comfort, and I laid down right at their feet, acting as their warm, furry anchor. We stayed like that for a long pause, just watching the river, until Momma let out a massive sigh.

"But..."

Big Daddy didn't even look up, just watched the water. "No more excitement."

Saying Goodbye to Loki: The Hidden Danger of Outdoor Poisons and Finding Hope Again

 

It’s been a while since my last post, and to be honest, it’s a draft I’ve been putting off writing for a couple of months. It’s never easy to share heartbreak, but it feels necessary—both to honor a legendary companion and to share a cautionary message that might save another family from going through what we did.

A few months ago, Serena and I lost Loki.

Loki wasn’t just a pet; he was an awesome Maine Coon and truly my oldest fur friend. He was a constant, steady presence in our lives, full of personality, and an incredible indoor/ outdoor mousing cat who took his job seriously. Losing him left a massive, quiet void in our home.

What makes losing Loki even harder to process is how it happened. We believe he ingested poison that had been put out nearby.

When you have an outdoor cat who is a natural hunter, the world is full of hidden hazards, but rodenticides are among the most dangerous. People often put out mouse or rat poison without realizing the devastating ripple effect it causes. A poisoned rodent doesn't die instantly; it slows down, becoming easy prey for a skilled mousing cat like Loki. When the cat eats the rodent, it ingests the secondary poison, which is often fatal.

If you are dealing with a pest problem, please consider the neighborhood pets and local wildlife before reaching for chemical poisons. There are safer, more humane alternatives that don't put beloved companions at risk. No one should have to watch a family member suffer from something so entirely preventable.

Serena and I have spent the last couple of months mourning Loki, missing the way he claimed his space in our lives. The grief doesn't entirely disappear, but time has allowed the sharpest edges of it to soften. And recently, we decided it was time to let some light back into the house.

Our home is no longer quiet. In fact, it's full of chaotic, tiny energy, thanks to two new kittens who have joined our family.

First, there is Freddie Nugget, who is right around 8 to 10 weeks old now. He is a ball of pure curiosity and playfulness. Joining him is Stella, a sweet little girl who was unfortunately separated from her mom about a week or two too soon. Because of her early start, she requires a bit of extra patience and care, but watching her adapt and bond with Nugget has been incredibly rewarding. Even though Nugget is playing, we do have to watch for him being too rough. 

They will never replace Loki—no cat ever could. He was one of a kind. But Nugget and Stella are helping us heal, reminding us of the joy of new beginnings, and keeping us entirely on our toes.

To everyone who loved Loki from afar, thank you for being part of his journey. Hold your fur friends a little closer today, and please, let's keep our neighborhoods safe for the animals who watch over our barns and backyards.

Until next time,

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

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

---

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.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/404221691-dewey-and-big-daddy%27s-excellent-adventures

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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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