Max picked up the Pomeranian, tucked it into his jacket, and looked at the defeated gang. “Training isn’t breaking. It’s speaking. And you,” he added, tossing a bag of dehydrated liver treats to Scrotus Jr., “need to start with basic sit-stay. No more spare tires.”
Max just held up a new leather muzzle. “Now. The puppy class.” Mad Max Trainer Fling UPD
Three days later, Scrotus Jr. found Giblet sitting politely, giving paw, and refraining from devouring a raw mutton leg placed on his nose. Max picked up the Pomeranian, tucked it into
“That’s Giblet,” Scrotus Jr. growled. “He bit three of my war boys last week. He ate my spare tire. He answers to no one. Fix him, or you feed the lizard pits.” And you,” he added, tossing a bag of
Max sighed. He unclipped the leash from his own dog—a scrappy mutt named Turnip who knew 140 commands and could operate a crossbow release with his teeth.
They were Pibbles. Pug-huahuas. A single, fluffy Great Pyrenees. And a three-legged Chihuahua named Princess Buttercup who snarled like a chainsaw.
“Turnip. Protocol ‘Good Boy.’”
