05/10/2025
It’s been 125 days since Harley strutted into my life like she owned the lease—and now, she’s officially my workout partner. Not the kind that texts “on my way” and shows up 30 minutes late. No, Harley’s punctual. Ruthless. And apparently fluent in gym slang.
She’s 55 pounds of Labrador muscle, sass, and service-dog swagger. A black-furred celebrity in our town. We can’t walk two steps without someone shouting, “Hi Harley!”—like I’m just her unpaid Uber driver. Me? I’m just Harley’s Dad. The answerer of questions like “How old is she?” or “Can I pet her?” (Spoiler: No. She’s working. Calm down, Karen.)
At the gym, she’s taken on the role of rep counter, set enforcer, and personal hype beast. If I rest too long between sets? Bark. Linger near the water fountain? Paw slap. And if I start chatting with someone? She wedges herself between my legs, looks up with those big brown eyes, and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “It’s still your m***a fckin’ set, Dad.”*
You ever get shamed into squats by a dog in a pink harness? Cuts deep.
She side-eyes my form on deadlifts. Paces if I skip warm-up. Brings me resistance bands like she’s assigning me homework. And the sigh—oh the sigh—when someone talks to me too long? That dramatic flop on the floor is her way of saying, “Wrap it up, Romeo. Park time’s ticking.”
And now… she gets GIFTS.
People literally leave toys for her at the gym. At the front desk. Like she’s some kind of workout-influencer. “For Harley!” written on notes like she’s got a fan club. I’m still out here paying for protein powder while she’s getting merch.
Honestly, I think she’s training me now.
And the truth is? I’m in the best shape I’ve been in years. All thanks to Harley’s no-nonsense, zero-belly-rub-until-you-finish-your-set policy.
Next week, I’m getting her a whistle and a clipboard. Might as well make it official:
Coach Harley – No Excuses. No Delays. No Mercy.