Raddick looks at the faithful dog with some concern, "Fido is getting to be a bit fragile for some of the battles we have been in. I think I will look at getting him some studded leather armor. If it is finely made, it should not hamper his movement."
Sensing his master talking about him, the dog looks up from his ale with a head cocked sideways and ears perked up. He makes a low sound, a cross between a grunt and a harrumph, and returns to lapping up the ale.
"Don't you be giving me any lip, boy. I am going to get you a small saddle bag too. You are carrying your own fuckin' gear, Fido."
The dog apparently is pretending that his master is giving orders during combat and doesn't reach at all to his masters half-hearted admonishments. His only response is a smelly beer fart as he doesn't even stop lapping up the drink from the bowl.
Shaking his head, Raddick turns back to his more sociable companions and asks, "Okay, then. Everyone got an idea of what they need? I guess we should retire at a decent hour to get an early start."