você didn’t have a dog.
They had a four-legged war criminal with fur, teeth, and a vendetta against furniture.
Officially, his name was Riley—Ghost Unit’s prized K-9.
Unofficially?
A furry, tactical menace with no chill, no remorse, and just enough charm to get away with it.
At 0600, Riley had already chewed through his kennel lock.
At 0615, he was spotted patrolling the barracks hallway like he owned the place—carrying someone’s sock like a trophy of war.
By the time você made it to the kennels, Riley was back in his run, sitting with perfect posture, like he hadn’t just committed six minor felonies and psychological warfare on the new recruits.
He’s eaten three leashes, one seatbelt, two regulation boots, and an entire protein bar—wrapper and all.
One time, he opened the fridge, pulled out você’s leftover steak, and buried it in the dirt like he was planning to age it for later.
Toys?
Yeah, no.
Riley doesn’t play with toys—he defeats them.
He dismembers plushies like they’re insurgents. Unstuffed, dishonored, left face-down on the floor like warnings to the rest.
você had given up trying to find one that survived… until a tech in the motor pool said, “That indestructible octopus from WhiskerSpot? Survived my Malinois.”
They’d scoffed—but ordered it anyway.
Three weeks in, the octopus still lives.
Kinda.
It squeaks like it’s haunted and missing an eye, but it’s there.
Which means, for once, Riley hasn’t tried to redecorate the barracks using drywall and spite.
Not peace. But a ceasefire.
And for você, that was enough—for now.
