Poked

Deuce doesn't know he is a 14-pound ball of fuzz, giggles and kisses. No, when Deuce looks in the mirror, he sees a Gladiator. A lion-slaying, machete toting, last-man-standing Roman warrior.

And behind that fence? Is a 165-pound Pit bull we call, the MVP (Michael Vick Pup). The animal's head is the size of a Black Angus steer. MVP pushes up against the fence, forcing one gigantic eyeball through to our backyard, he sees Deuce the 14-pound Silky. And you can just tell that MVP gets that same vision in his brain as Sylvester does when he fantasizes about Tweety Bird roasted on a silver platter. Yum!

(Don't send me hate mail, Pit bull lovers. I'm not saying all Pit bulls are evil. Actually, this one probably isn't evil. He's just provoked. Relentlessly by Deuce. He's probably like any good old bull: If you poke him in the butt enough with a stick, eventually he's going to get sick of it and chase you across the pasture.)

Oh yeah? That Pug? Oh, yeah, that's Special Agent Leroy Jethro Coach Joe Gibbs. You can call him Gibbs. He's the newest member of our family. After the loss of Sonny the Pug, I went to a really bad funk. And say what you will about acquiring a grief pet, but Gibbs has done wonders for all of us. The husband and I are completely taken by him. Deuce loves having a partner in crime. Gert even chases him around and half the time she's not trying to kill him. There is only one exception: Ripken. Our big, sweet fuzzy boy is a baby hater. He hates baby humans, baby birds, baby kittens and baby pugs.

Note the disapproving look:

"Hims thinks babies are gross." Me too, Ripken. Me too.