A couple people sent me this pic, so I had to do another Sheepdog Fan Fiction.

“They don’t want this smoke!” Charles muttered as he strutted on the deck, vaguely motioning to the outside world while looking over at Irene, his wife of 65 years. “Isn’t that what our grandson DeShawn says?” he asked. Irene entirely missed what he said, but looked up.. shook her head yes.. smiled.. then looked back down at her Reader’s Digest. “I’ll tell you whUT, if the sound of me putting one in the chamber doesn’t scare them away, or the birdshot doesn’t kill em, then the 1911 will finish the job.” he said as he removed the no-frills GI series Rock Island Armory .45 from the Uncle Mike’s nylon holster his left hip. He proceeded to press check it 5 or 6 times, not because he was old and forgetful, but rather since recently getting a desktop computer he noticed that on “website tv” all the young kids were doing that. “Your tea is getting cold” Irene warned, to which he rolled his eyes and gingerly placed the 1911 back in its holster before going to join her on the patio set. As he sat down pain jolted through his right side, specifically his leg “AHagggggggghhhhgHHGHG Irene my leg! Call 911 I think I’m having a.. a stroke!”. Irene frantically put down the Reader’s Digest and rose from her seat to get the phone from inside the house. She looked over at Charles to make sure he was at least good enough to be alone for the few seconds he would be out of her sight. She noticed something… the shotgun holster straps… “Hey Charley…” she said barely able to contain her laughter. “Get that sorted out with your tight holster straps and you’ll be fine… idiot.” she said as she went to sit back down. “Tip of the spear… isn’t that what you and Clarence call each other from back in the day?” she said said chuckling as he fiddled with the leather straps looking relieved but unamused.

👴👴👴 📷blackacestactical via @these_dying_lights @deishell09



haha I thought this was a joke initially because of the non serious sound of the narrator’s voice, but nope:

FuNkEr TaCtiCaL never disappoints. Like I mentioned in the title, the Sheepdog rebrand is genius…. call them “Citizen Defenders” and it immediately sounds more upscale and less derpy, even while using the same Sheepdog flock protecting rhetoric.

I love how Funker needed to specify that this is an [Intense Promo Video] in the actual title, so we knew what we were in for.



Had to do another one after hundreds of you sent me the picture:

“Did you remember to pack food?” Kim yelled from the kitchen to Scott, her husband of 5 years. “Kim. Please, I got this.” he replied in what his wife would describe as a tone. If there’s one thing that got under his skin, it was when Kim played the role of the concerned mother. “I’m a prepper and a Sheepdog for God’s sake…” Scott mumbled under his breath, shaking his head as he bent down to tie the laces on his pristine white Nike Air Monarchs, only spoken loud enough for their french bulldog (Leonidas) and the baby, Finnigan Gaston in close proximity to hear. Finnigan was his wife’s idea… the compromise was Gaston (an obvious homage to Glock) as a middle name. Scott went through his usual mental checklist every time he took Finnigan out for a walk:

✓ Plate carrier with baby holding compartment
✓ Serpa retention holster with the FNS .40 loaded with G2 Research R.I.P Ammo
✓ Progressive lenses with aftermarket anti-wolf coating
✓ Snacks (formula for Finnigan – Gushers, lemon LaCroix, and beef jerky for himself)
✓ Diapers and wipes

Scott did a quick COMMs check, looking at the screen and verifying that his iPhone 6s was indeed connected to the 4G network. “Alright Finnigan, you ready to rock & roll?” Scott said into the baby bassinet as he picked the little guy up, placing him in the plate carrier compartment. “Be still sweet prince… shhhhhh…” Scott whispered to Finnigan and kissed him on the forehead as the boy fussed a bit. Lastly Scott removed the FNS .40 from the Serpa, doing a quick press check before grabbing his house key dangling from the thin-blue-line sheepdog “flock protector” emblazoned lanyard, hanging on the artisan wrought iron hooks near the front door light switch. “Remember, If we’re not back in one hour, call SWAT for assistance Kimberly. I don’t want you out there looking for me with wolves prowling around. Let my fellow men of arms handle it. I love you!” Scott said as he opened the front door, miming throwing a flashbang onto the porch before conducting Finnigan’s EXFIL.



Trevor took a short walk from his front porch and stood in the morning shadows of the douglas fir in his front yard to check the weather. He slowly grazed the calloused forefinger of his right hand back and forth across the debossed lettering on his outside the waistband Savoy Leather holster; “HAVE NO FEAR FOR ODIN AWAITS IN VALHALLA”. It served as a reminder to himself, and as “a warning to the canis lupus” Trevor liked to smugly recite when people asked; knowing they damn well wouldn’t know it was latin for wolf. His feeling of mental superiority further skyrocketing after typically mumbling “Ovis aries…” (latin for domestic sheep) under his breath. Trevor didn’t particularly enjoy interacting with the sheep; it was simply his duty. A 24 hour per day grind that involved peak situational awareness and readiness. His sheepdog senses were on high alert today, after recent local newscasts were reporting increased teen mischief in the area. This is exactly why Trevor decided to forgo his usual braided paracord bracelet in favor of the .410 buckshot bracelet. Trevor knew from experience that even the sight of .410 was a major deterrent to a teen wolf plotting wolf things. Combine that with the Bond Arms pistol in the aforementioned fancy holster, peacocking on an obnoxiously loud red white and blue painted leather belt with the embellished phrase “STAND DOWN BECAUSE I WON’T”; another mantra Trevor lived by, and was ready to die by if need be.

Convinced that the open flannel button-up shirt combined with a greyman fishing vest he had on was low-key enough and weather appropriate for the day, he turned around to go back inside his house. Barely out of the shadow of the immense douglas fir, he stopped dead in his tracks… the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Trevor could hear a rumble like that of a freight train coming from the steep hill out of sight, a few houses over and around the corner from his house. It was getting increasingly louder. His heart beating quickly, he pulled out the bond arms body dropper .410, rushed back into the shadows, and bladed at a tactical 45 degree stance towards the threat. Suddenly, six laughing teens on skateboards appeared. Trevor reverted back to his training, doing 360 degree search and assess… scanning for more threats. Convinced there were only six teens, he visually locked in on them in case they tried anything. Laughing and joking, the teens were doing ollies and hitting mailboxes with their backpacks on their way down the street. Not on my watch thought Trevor as he readied himself, breathing deeply and steadily.

Adrenaline surged through Trevor’s body, slowing the speed of the world around him. The sound of hard skateboard wheels on the sidewalk was deafening as the teens quickly approached… the coolest looking one in the lead began twisting his body, his long frail arm clutching a red Supreme backpack being pre-loaded to strike. Mere seconds to backpack impact, Trevor emerged from the shadows of the douglas fir, his .410 glistening in the morning sun – “DON’T TREAD ON ME” he stated loudly at the group, staccato in cadence, dumping all his adrenaline in the process. In unison all six teens erupted in uncontrollable laughter, almost falling off their boards as the coolest one in the lead untwisted his body expertly timing his swing of the backpack. Upon impact, Trevor’s aluminum mailbox separated from the wooden post it was attached to, split at the seams, sailing across his property spewing mail everywhere. The little red semaphore flag mockingly landed at Trevor’s feet as one of the teens yelled “Loser!”; the distance between the teens and the scene of the crime rapidly increasing proportional to Trevor’s embarrassment. In a state of shock that his stern words and .410 were not enough of a deterrent, Trevor 360 degree scanned his yard, re-holstered the mighty pistol, and said out loud to himself therapeutically “The only “L” I’ll ever take, is a lesson. I will defeat the wolf another day, it is the sheepdog way.”

Gat tip: Joseph

Thanks for reading m’lady’s 🎩👌 & fellas.  Hope you have a splendid weekend.


I wrote another one:

Robert did a full 360 degree threat scan and checked all mirrors before assessing it as safe, then clicked on his left turn signal to change lanes. Salt Lake City tended to straddle the thin wolf-grey colored line between order and chaos as most large cities do… a non-permissive wolf-eat-sheep environment thought Robert. They were all mutton and they didn’t even know it. When his transition into the far left lane completed, the traffic light unexpectedly changed from amber to red. He forcibly hit the brakes, slowing the massive Tacoma’s roll; barely stopping before the rear bumper of the Chevrolet Volt in front of him. The little hairs on the back of Robert’s neck began to stand up… he was too close. Too close to the Volt to perform a standard evasive maneuver if need be. The curb to the left was obviously not an issue for the incredibly high factory lift on the Tacoma… the issue was the Ford Raptor behind him left him no room to back up, and knew he didn’t have the turning radius to pop out. Damn. Robert knew this was a rookie mistake. He needed a plan of action, and he needed one quick. This Costco run (or OPERATION KIRKLAND as he preferred to call it) was the primary sustenance target on the list of objectives his wife had given him. Too easy, Robert thought as he chuckled under his breath. If need be he would perform what he liked to call “the shepherd’s hook”; an evasive maneuver where he would slam the beastly 3.5 liter V6 into reverse smashing into the Ford Raptor behind him, pushing it back several feet. He would then shift into drive, crank his steering wheel all the way to the left and use every ounce of that 278 HP to rocket over the curb fishtailing a U-turn to expediently Golf Tango Foxtrot Oscar (GTFO). His heart pounded as he kept checking on the status of the traffic light… situational awareness at peak while continuing to scan his environment. A homeless man who was begging for money on the median further back was advancing to his position rapidly. Instinctively Robert’s hand went for the Springfield XD gripzone area protruding from his IWB Nylon holster, as he kept watch in the left side mirror. “Easyyyyy.. easy….” Robert said aloud, partially as reaffirmation to himself to keep his cool, and partially hoping that it would telekinetically cause the homeless man to slow his roll. Glancing back and forth between the advancing homeless man in the side mirror and the traffic light, Robert’s heart pounded even faster. He tightened his grip on the aptly named zone, readying himself for action. Suddenly a savior.. the glowing left pointing green arrow of hope appeared. The Chevy Volt quickly made its way through the intersection, with Robert rolling at a safe distance behind. He laughed morbidly that he would live to die another day, as he made a sharp right into FOB COSTCO. 📷: @mottleycrew65 @maisonhorne

I put it up on instagram last week, and people really liked it.

I’m going to be looking more into publishing these into a book format.  Seems like people are liking them more than I ever expected.  I have a great time writing them; thank you to those of you who take the time to read!  I know they are a bit longer than my usual posts.


Tru Sheepdogs kno:

I don’t know if the guy calls himself a “sheepdog” or not (my guess is he doesn’t, and he’s just a regular good guy with the CCW).  Either way he took down a wolf.

Here’s the full story at CBS Chicago.

Thoughts?  Chicago needs all the help it can get.  I think it’s cool that the cops are giving this guy the respect and thanks he deserves.