I told Jackson to be a good fighter, he needed independent exercise. He abandoned the ribbon and the stick and graduated to real bugs. When a fly flew inside Jackson followed it throughout the house. When it flew above his head, out of his reach, Jackson waited below. Hours later when the fly eventually landed on the floor Jackson pounced, popped the bug in his mouth and chewed it like he was eating taffy.
He had developed strength—or at least was too dense to feel pain. I stroked Jackson in my arms and set him on the wood floor. He had successfully completed his training. I deemed him ready to fight.