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.”
WITNESS HIM. Witness the sit.
And so the legend grew: the Mad Max Trainer, roaming the wasteland, one aggressive rescue at a time. No Fury Road. Just the Slow, Patient, Treat-Filled Road. Mad Max Trainer Fling UPD