So every morning when I wake up I greet Charlie with something like this:
“Is that my GOOD BOY? Who is my GOOD BOY?” (I say this over and over again. If you were here you would probably vomit.)
But hear me out: my real boys are way too old to stomach this sort of talk, so Charlie humors me.
Generally he gets up, wags his tail and rubs his head against my ankles.
But after three months of marathon training, when only MFP will take him for runs, this is what I get.
It is like the doggie middle finger.