My master got nominated by his work to carry the Olympic Flame. He'd have got to do it too if he'd just passed the fitness test. All he had to do was run one hundred yards carrying the torch. Unfortunately he's so unfit all his huffing and puffing blew it out. Not good for a supposed health professional. They're going with someone else.
I tried to cheer him up by getting him to chase me around the garden at night. I was sure I could smell a cat in the neighbour's garden. As I bounced and bounded up and down the plant area, barking loudly, he made a valiant attempt at catching me but ended up skidding and falling on the bark, while shushing me and trying to grab my collar. It's important to push him that extra distance. Make him feel the burn. I don't want an unfit master cutting my walks short because he's out of breath. I even help him eat less by begging for the last scraps of any snack he's eating. Every little helps.
But do I get any thanks? No, the ungrateful sod. I didn't get a treat before bed tonight. But it's him that'll suffer in the long run (if you'll pardon the pun). The way he's going, I'm going to outlive him. A dog should never bury his owner. Just ask Greyfriars Bobby. I wonder what he's left me in his will.