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.
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