Winter: Not just a myth

A chill is in the air, my flock. Allah's cold winter wind has finally arrived in Texas. An overzealous reporter at the local newspaper even had the audacity to call it a "white Thanksgiving" after a tiny sprinkling of snow fell yesterday. For the first time in months, I have pulled my thermal winter turban from storage. God willing, it will keep me warm and toasty on the rare occasion when I am not snuggled up with Wendell or one of the humans. "But what of young Wendell?" you ask. "How will the skinny, turbanless pup cope with this arctic blast?" Fear not, my flock. Wendell is well prepared.

A day of thanks

Allah, we kneel before you on this blessed holiday with much to be thankful for. We thank you for the bountiful feast that we will partake in, and for the days upon days of glorious leftovers. We thank you for our friends and family members -- especially our great-grandmother, whose propensity for dropping food on the floor is legendary. May the unsteadiness of her fork grow with each passing day.

We are thankful that the ministry's problems with the IRS have fallen by the wayside; for the first time since the ministry's founding, we are not the subject of an audit or formal inquiry. And we thank you, Dear God, for the compromising photos of Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson that made this turnaround possible.

And finally, Oh Great Creator of the Universe and All Who Reside Within It, Including the Canines You Made in Your Image, we thank you for the congregants who visit this blog. We thank you for those who leave comments, and we thank you for those who lurk silently yet still gain great spiritual knowledge and awareness. And most of all, God, we thank you for those who donate.

Allahu akbar!

Amen.

Hop along now, infidels ...

It was 2 a.m. as we pulled into the garage. The ayatollah clan had just crammed a long weekend in Oklahoma into a little over 24 hours. Mother had gone to a baby shower. My seven-pound brother had begun his courtship of a 60-pound Lab mix named Ginger. And I had stayed busy trying to overthrow Hamas in Gaza while also working to reverse the rising cost of rawhide. As we unloaded the pugmobile, the unmistakable sound of drunken revelry emanated from the dwelling next door. It was unusual -- I can't recall any other such gathering at the neighbors' house -- but it seemed to be nothing to worry about, bad music aside. Then mother nudged me. "Mugsy," she whispered, "what are they doing to my car?"

I turned to find a crowd of intoxicated humans gathered around the driver's-side door of mother's vehicle in the driveway. "Hey!" I barked, "what are you doing?"

One hunched-over human straightened, as best he could in his present state. "I'm drawing a rabbit," he said matter-of-factly.

I have nothing against rabbits or any other small woodland animals, and I am well known as a patron of the arts. But still, I found this explanation to be unacceptable. Call me crazy, but I would prefer that humans keep their grubby paws off my property -- especially at 2 in the morning.

"Get away from my car!" I growled.

The humans scattered like cockroaches under a floodlight. Mother went to check on the car. And in the mist on its window, she found the beginnings of a rabbit drawing.

This incident has left me no choice but to issue a fatwa! I never thought I would have to say this, but it must be clarified so that all will know. Henceforth, it is strictly forbidden under canine Islam to draw a bunny in the window of any car other than your own.

Finely aged rawhide

Today, Wendell and I enjoyed a rare treat. Father went to the rawhide chest and pulled out two pre-chewed bones, probably of the mid-2005 vintage. Like a fine wine, they improve with age. Each chew of the rich, hearty hide conjures up warm memories of a simpler time, a time when I did not have a puppy constantly nipping at my tail. But unlike wine, they are halaal.

The escape artist

Ever since Wendell and I toured Alcatraz a couple of weeks ago, the young pug has been obsessed with prison breaks. The audio tour on the old island penitentiary details some of the many attempts to escape the harsh, windswept island. And even though none of them were known to be successful, these inmate plots captured Wendell's imagination. So he has been working diligently to escape from the back yard.

He at first targeted the compound's most vulnerable defenses -- the wrought-iron fence. It runs on one side of the yard to allow views of the neighborhood creek and its fountains, but the bars have ample space for the slender pup to slip through, or under. After witnessing an early attempt, mother put up black mesh all along the fenceline to keep Wendell in, along with some barriers along the gate to keep him from burrowing underneath. But Wendell, his puggish genius manifesting itself at an early age, still managed to escape. Father recently found him on the other side of the fence. He called the pup, wondering how on earth he'd managed to break free. Wendell then proceeded to leap high over the fence barrier and through the bars, displaying uncanny athleticism. With his lanky build, an NBA future surely awaits.

After further fortifications, the iron bars finally appeared to outmatch young Wendell. But as his marathon Mugsy-tail-chewing sessions have shown, he is nothing if not determined. Today, he gave us the biggest scare yet. Wendell was eagerly scratching at the door, so father let him out and went to put on his shoes. Mere seconds later, as father and I went to check on Wendell, he was gone. We went to the front of the house to see if he was somewhere near the fence, but we saw no sign of him. We called out, even yelling the "B" word -- biscuit! -- but again, nothing.

So father and I returned to the back yard to look for signs of Wendell. Finally, I heard a rustling in the corner of the yard. Wendell, covered in mud and dirt, had managed to trap himself between our wooden fence and a large bush in the neighbor's yard. We have still not determined how he got there, but it must have required a contortionist feat that would have done Harry Houdini proud.

Needless to say, Wendell is currently under house arrest.

Drinking problem? The ministry can help

A friend recently approached me to seek my counsel on a most serious issue. "Mugsy," he said, "though I fear for what you may think of me because of my slip-ups, I'm afraid I have no other options. Can you help me deal with my drinking problem?" He went on to describe his heart-wrenching troubles in detail. Being a canine, I am naturally a good listener, so I heard this friend out. Finally, I did my best to offer him hope, plotting a detailed course for his recovery.

And now I want to do the same for all of you. If you are struggling with a drinking problem, know that the ministry has a proven 12-step program to help. You need not suffer in silence, and you need not fear my reaction. Remember, I, too, have struggled with addiction.

My flock, I am pleased to say that my bulldog friend has completed all 12 steps and is now living the clean life. For the last three weeks, despite myriad temptations, he has not taken so much as a single sip from the toilet. Praise Allah!

Important announcement

I hesitate to bring this up, lest I contribute to the absurd rumors that I have a secret alter-ego. But the ramifications are too important to ignore. This news could have a significant impact on crime rates in the future territory of Pugistan -- something that we should all care about. Click here to read this important announcement on Batpug's blog.

Unpacking is the hardest part

"Big Brother," Wendell said, addressing me with one of my favorite nicknames, "tell me again why I had to travel inside a suitcase while you were able to board with the other passengers."

"It is simple," I replied. "The ministry travel fund only had enough money for one first-class ticket to San Francisco. So the only options were to travel in economy class with a seat for each of us, which simply wouldn't have worked, or to hide you in my luggage while I enjoyed complementary beverage and rawhide service."

"Oh," he replied. "So if the congregation had only donated more money, I wouldn't have this crick in my neck?"

"Er ... yes," I replied.

The movement grows

SAN FRANCISCO (AP) -- From the hippie hordes that descended on San Francisco for the "Summer of Love" 40 years ago to a stream of colorful gay pride parades, the city by the bay has seen its share of spectacles over the years. But witnesses said that what transpired Thursday at Fisherman's Wharf may have topped them all.

Ayatollah Mugsy, a Texas canine cleric making his first public appearance in Northern California, led a formal, bark-filled ceremony in which he deputized an entire colony of sea lions as officers in his religious group's paramilitary wing. An estimated 250 of the marine mammals sat at rapt attention as the enigmatic ayatollah addressed them. They then raised their right fins and took a vow of allegiance to Mugsy's Pug Life Ministries.

"Today, I deputize you as the guardians of Pugistan's western frontier," the ayatollah barked. He said that in addition to their naval defense role, the sea lions now have the authority to board ships and seize cargo passing through the Golden Gate.

Officials at the San Francisco Court Clerk's office said they had no record of any location within the city named "Pugistan," but the animals at Fisherman's Wharf were clearly not concerned with any official landholding rights. After the swearing-in ceremony, the marine mammals erupted in rapturous applause before Ayatollah Mugsy led them in the singing of a sea shanty.

Though the mood on the wharf was electric, unease loomed like fog farther down the bay. As cranes unloaded his vessel at the Port of San Francisco, ship captain Otis Starneby sounded a worried tone. "Aaargh!" he said. "I've got hundreds of cargo containers filled with chew toys from China. The men, they're worried. This may be the last time we make it safely back to port."

After Thursday morning's ceremony, the ayatollah was said to be traveling to Yosemite National Park to recruit deer, coyotes and black bears into his burgeoning interfaith, interspecies movement.

Mugsy survives earthquake; legend grows

Greetings, my flock. I am coming to you from not-so-sunny San Francisco, where I have been visiting the last several days. I had hoped to detail my travel plans and leave you with a terrifying Halloween tale before I left, but time would not allow it. I was hurried and harried right up until my plane lifted off; such is the life of the world's foremost canine religious authority. But I have happened upon an Internet cafe and have a few more minutes on the ministry credit card, so please allow me to tell you a bit about my trip so far.

I will begin with my most recent adventure: the Great Quake of '07. It hit an hour or so ago as I was meditating in my sixth-floor hotel room. The local TV newshumans say it was a 5.6 on the Richter scale, a moderate but attention-grabbing quake. Was I scared when the walls began to shake -- and shake some more for a good 10 seconds? No, my flock. The ayatollah knows no fear. And any small stains on the hotel carpeting are purely coincidental. Thankfully, there are no reports of injuries or serious damage from the quake.

But the trip has featured more than just Allah's rumbling wrath. Yesterday, I sailed to Alcatraz and took a fascinating tour. I learned many techniques that will surely benefit the fledgling nation of Pugistan as we launch our revolution and detain the inevitable dissenters and assorted troublemakers. I learned about some of the island prison's many escape attempts, and I was reminded of my own escape from the pound, where I found Allah lo those many moons ago. My published autobiography has not yet reached that point, but I assure you, it was a harrowing and ingenious escape.

Of all the sights I have seen, the most awe-inspiring might surprise you. It is not the Golden Gate Bridge, or the mighty, churning Pacific Ocean. No, it was Pier 39 at Fisherman's Wharf. There, I stumbled upon a sea of sea lions, all barking in a dialect not far removed from my own native canine language. They swam and they slid, they played and they pushed. And much like a pug, they relaxed in the sun. Before the day was over, I had won them all over to the Pug Life way. Like me, they now bark in the word of Allah. And they stand ready to join us as we embark on our revolutionary path. My time is nearly up, my flock. Let us pray that there were no typos. Allahu Akbar!

Revelation stuns blog world

DALLAS (AP) -- Blog readers around the world were shocked Thursday to learn that the Sorcerer of Prague, who played a key role earlier this year in Ayatollah Mugsy's smiting of Blue Bull, is a gay puppet.

Many said they were poring over old blog posts in search of clues they might have missed in earlier readings.

The revelation came as the enigmatic ayatollah was reading from the Quran to a group of Ayatollah Mugsy Scouts. Responding to a question from the audience, Mugsy reportedly replied, "Though it may surprise you to learn this, the wizard is not as he appears. His piercing stare and stern countenance may have you believe otherwise, but he is, in fact, quite gay."

In the beginning ...

Some congregants have clamored for more photos of my brother, so here he is on the first day my mother went to visit him. (Wendell's the hungry one.)

Of power cords and fatwas

Thanks to some cajoling, some jiggling and some praying, my computer is now working. It is receiving just enough electricity through its shoddily made power cord to function. The fraying cord itself is not that old, having replaced another similarly balky piece of equipment in February.

My flock, there is nothing more tragic than a power cord dying young. Nothing, that is, except its replacement being available only via mail order and only at the exorbitant cost of $80. Had Dell stock not contributed to the Capitalist Pug portfolio over the years, I would surely be issuing an angry fatwa at this moment.

Speaking of fatwas, you may have noticed that my little brother, Wendell, recently took it upon himself to issue a demand for rawhide on this blog. Perhaps I should have seen this coming. Whatever I do, it seems, young Wendell is right behind. When I patrol the fence line to sniff out any infidels or ne'er-do-well bunnies, Wendell patrols right along with me. When I go to get a drink of water, Wendell quenches his thirst as well. He would essentially be my one-sixth-size shadow -- if shadows occasionally bit tails. Thank Allah they do not.

So it comes as no surprise that Wendell studied my movements on the computer, stole my password and issued a fatwa of his own. As a pug who has not graduated from puppy class at PetSmart, let alone a high-level madrassa, Wendell is not yet qualified to issue such religious edicts. However, given the important nature of his fatwa, I am willing to let this one stand.

Wendell issues fatwa

SEND ME RAWHIDE NOW!

NOW!!!

Mugsy issues fatwa

For too long, consumers have been senselessly befuddled at checkout lines and bemused at ATMs. We are given an unthinkable task -- told to deny the laws of nature, of physics, of Allah Himself! I am left with no choice but to issue a fatwa!

Henceforth, it is strictly forbidden under canine Islam for machines to demand that we "insert and remove card quickly in one motion." As even infidels and felines know, this is physically impossible.

Mugsy laments crisis of leadership

Something weighs heavy on my mind, my flock. It seems that every day, I find a new example of America's so-called leaders shirking their duties in favor of pointless pursuits. True, this is something of a tradition. But it seems to have reached epidemic proportions in recent weeks.

The latest craze sweeping the nation is a crackdown on sagging pants. City councils across the land are taking steps to enact fines or even jail time for people caught with their pants hanging low. Droopy drawers have become a hot-button issue in Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Maryland and other states. In Dallas, just down the tollway from the ayatollah compound, City Council member Dwaine Caraway vowed to pass an ordinance against sagging pants. "This issue is just as important as crime," he said. Perhaps I am biased on this issue, having been one of the forerunners of the saggy-pants trend in my days as a gangsta rapper, but I believe Mr. Caraway's priorities are severely out of whack. Dallas annually has one of the highest big-city crime rates in America. This means loss of property, loss of peace of mind and, all too often, loss of life. My advice to the City Council: Focus on stopping this years-long crime wave or solving a host of other actual problems facing the city and leave the fashion-police role to those insufferable reality TV shows.

This crisis of leadership is not merely a city or state issue. In Washington, lawmakers have been debating a measure to label the Armenian genocide a genocide. And for what purpose? I am sure a handful of interest groups are pleased, but this does nothing to help the country these lawmakers were elected to lead. On the contrary, Turkey yesterday recalled its ambassador over the flap. Ladies and gentlemen of the U.S. House, America doesn't have many allies left. Do you really want to anger Turkey over something that happened nearly 100 years ago? Modern-day Turkey, the country we are pointlessly antagonizing, did not even exist until 1923, a few years after the killings. While our lawmakers twiddle their allegedly superior opposable thumbs and debate the history of the Ottoman Empire, a modern-day genocide is occurring in Darfur. You tell me which is more important. And let us not forget the old adage about throwing stones in glass Dogloos -- America certainly has its share of skeletons in the closet.

This time-wasting Armenian debate comes just weeks after Congress voted to condemn a paid newspaper ad criticizing Gen. David Petraeus' handling of the war in Iraq. We are mired in a war with no end in sight, and seemingly with nothing to do but choose from a series of unattractive options. But instead, our elected leaders continued to make no decisions at all and instead voted to officially condemn an anti-war group for exercising its rights to free speech. Is it wrong to dream of a country where the leadership would stay above the fray in such petty matters?

Congress could find a solution in Iraq. It could find a way to improve our health-care system -- America spends more on health care than any other nation on the planet, yet our results are middle-of-the-pack at best among industrialized nations. Congress could take action to fight climate change. It could rein in its out-of-control deficit spending. It could take steps to address the plunge of the dollar, which has been sinking steadily for several years now. Believe it or not, the once-mighty dollar is now worth no more than a Canadian dollar. Anyone who visited our neighbors to the north a few years ago knows what a turnaround this is. The last time I was in Toronto, several years ago, I could have actually bought the CN Tower with a week's salary. Now? I would be lucky to be able to afford a hotel room. But does Congress address any of these real concerns that affect people's lives? No.

My flock, I fear that we can only draw one conclusion: America is a nation led by boneheads. And not the tasty, rawhide kind of bones. No, these are the metaphorical, do-nothing kind of bones. This nation needs a change, my flock. We need a new direction. Now, more than ever, we need a canine-led theocracy.

Gored

Another year, another disappointment. What does a pug have to do to win the Nobel Peace Prize?

Sister Bella arrested

QUANTICO, Va. (AP) -- Notorious alleged criminal mastermind Bella the Chihuahua was taken into custody after an early-morning raid in which 18 FBI agents were wounded, authorities said Thursday.

The Chihuahua, wanted in a series of felonies in Mexico, is being held in a maximum-security cell while officials decide whether to extradite her or try her in the U.S. legal system.

"It's tricky," said FBI Senior Agent Mike Grammel. "By all witness accounts, this little dog is guilty in the slaying of rock star Tom Petty. And yet, Mr. Petty is alive and well -- I've spoken to him myself. This is truly a bizarre case."

The dog had been on the run since her Aug. 3 attack on Petty at a charity event near Dallas.

In an e-mailed message, the singer said he owed his life to the enigmatic Ayatollah Mugsy of Pug Life Ministries. "The pug dog resurrected me," he wrote. "No further comment. Praise be to the wrinkly imam."

Put me in, coach

They call me AD, because I can eat All Day.

May the forces of good and righteousness overcome the Great Burnt Orange Satan.

Academic scandal brewing?

I have noticed that Wendell's collar has "Lil' Dog University" written on it.

I am not one to cast aspersions, but after consulting with several national and regional accreditation bodies, I have come to suspect that this is a puppy diploma mill.

Feats of strength

I clenched the rope between my powerful jaws, as I had so many times before. But now, it was different. After vanquishing the hapless, puny humans untold hundreds of times, would this contest finally bring a worthy competitor?

At the other end of the rope, young Wendell took hold. He was inexperienced, to be sure, but eager. Eager to test his mettle, eager to take on this ancient pug rite of passage. He nodded and squeaked to signal his readiness.

With that, I smoothly pulled my head back. Every muscle in my chiseled, sinewy body worked in unison. My legs straightened; my claws gripped the carpet. Wendell attempted to follow suit but instead went airborne and landed mere inches from my face. We exchanged growls, and then I moved away from him, quickly taking up the rope's newfound slack. Again, he lurched forward as I tugged on the rope. This young pug was experiencing a veritable baptism by fire. But one cannot hope to be the best unless one competes against the best. And that would be me, my flock. After pausing for a moment to let the initial shock wear off for young Wendell, I again jerked on the rope. He lost his footing and careened into a nearby chew toy, growling all the way.

I urged him on, combining encouragement with insult for maximum motivational effect. "Dig deep my brother," I implored. "You tug like an unveiled woman!"

After another 20 seconds of swinging my three-and-a-half-pound brother around like a ragdoll, I jumped onto the couch. Surely this would provide the motivation he needed.

"Wendell," I barked, "this is what you have always wanted. The couch -- my tail's lone refuge from your chew-happy teeth. Hang onto the rope, and you shall finally be able to scale this mountain."

But, alas, his jaws were not yet strong enough, and the rope was soon in my sole possession. Wendell's first journey to the couchtop would have to come another day.

The incredible hulking whippet

I've been marveling at this ultra-ripped whippet, my flock. A genetic mutation left her with double muscles, meaning her leg press may very well exceed that of my business rival Pat Robertson. Does anyone know how to get in touch with this dog? I must recruit her for the Armed Revolutionary Forces (ARF).

Mugsy and Wendell go to see Interpol

I took my little brother to his first music show last night. As we queued to enter the Palladium Ballroom, Wendell was upset when he was told he had to go through a separate line. "Why?" he barked. "Because you're under 21 in dog years," the usher barked back. As a bracelet was fitted above his paw, I explained to Wendell that he would not be missing out on anything. "The sin of alcohol is far greater than the benefit," I told him.

"How do you know this?" he asked.

"It is written in the Quran, my brother," I replied. "You have much to learn."

Once inside, I approached the bartender. "We would like two waters -- in bowls," I barked. The bartender appeared perplexed. "Ahem, down here!" I barked. "Oh, sorry, Your Holiness," he stammered, leaning over the bar. "Two water bowls coming right up -- on the house."

A lesson for Wendell

After awakening from our mid-morning naps, Wendell and I ventured outside to enjoy the nice weather. The Texas summer's cruel heat has finally begun to fade in recent weeks. As my sleepy brother wobbled around the back yard, he spied a butterfly perched upon a blade of grass. Wendell looked at me quizzically. Then he lunged at the butterfly, which flew above his head, taunting the pup. His mouth agape, Wendell made a few more futile efforts. "Wendell," I barked, "leave that butterfly alone. Allah's creatures deserve our respect and should not be attacked without cause." Then I reconsidered my words. "Except junebugs, of course. They are delicious. And oh so crunchy."

Life is good

There is cause for celebration, my flock. My two favored football teams, the Oklahoma Sooners and the Dallas Cowboys, both remain undefeated. And they have looked impressive in reaching their perfect records. Even more exciting, my toothy little pugbrother appears to finally be learning that my nether regions are not synonymous with a chewstick. Praise be to Allah and Bitter Apple!

Mystery solved

Assalamu alaikum, my flock. I would like you to meet my new little brother, Wendell. Like me, he is a pug. But he is black, and I am fawn, so hopefully my parents will not get us mixed up (I think my food portions are bigger). I must admit that young Wendell came as a surprise; mother didn't even appear to be showing. In fact, I had come to suspect the worst after analyzing the clues gathered by Sherlock Bones regarding my parents' recent odd behavior.

Sherlock found a series of suspicious photos on mother's camera that, combined with her unusual cellphone record and ATM withdrawals, led me to suspect her of infidelity. But just as I was about to call father and tell him that I believed mother was seeing a younger man -- a much younger man -- mother walked in the door clutching little Wendell. "Ayatollah," she said, "meet your new brother!"

I took to him immediately, my tail wagging like the windshield wipers set on high. I am looking forward to taking Wendell under my wing and teaching him the tricks of the pug trade -- notably the vaunted "pugtona," our distinctive circular sprinting technique. He must also learn to boost his snore volume and speak with a gruff, pleasing-to-the-ear bark. But there will be plenty of time for that later. The excitement at the ayatollah compound has proven exhausting, so for now, we shall nap.

Time for a timeshare

While poring over mother's phone records this afternoon, I received a call from my good friend Rabbi Jake. Jake is always on the lookout for innovative business practices that might benefit the ministry, and he came across a rather interesting strategy. It seems that a synagogue in Florida has begun a so-called torah timeshare. For a one-time donation of $1,800, congregants can host the sacred text in their homes for one week a year. Rabbi Jake was understandably excited about the possibilities. And let me tell you, my flock, Jake doesn't get excited about much these days. After our conversation ended, I began to ponder ways to translate this timeshare tactic to my own congregation. At first, I considered offering up a prized piece of rawhide. But there are some items for which no price tag will suffice; I simply cannot go without my rawhide. Then my thoughts turned to another item -- an artifact of great significance to the ministry.

As you may recall, I have reached many an epiphany while suckling my monkey toe. The foot of the stuffed primate sent my mind into a calm, zenlike state of pure concentration. The idea of the ministry's recent telethon, for example, was hatched during one of my marathon toe-nursing sessions. Unfortunately, the foot was not built to offer unlimited inspiration. Last week, during a particularly vigorous meditative session, the foot came clean off. And since my parents won't let me have access to so small an artifact anyway -- a choking hazard, they call it -- it seems like the perfect offering for the ministry's first timeshare program. So for the low, low price of $1,800 a week, you can welcome the sacred, saliva-caked monkey foot into your home. You can seat it next to you at the dinner table. You can place it beside your children as they do their homework. You can even put it in your pocket as a good-luck charm in that important job interview. Yes, my flock, this fuzzy foot, despite being severed from its onetime monkey owner, still possesses great power. Bring that power into your home today.

For inquiries, e-mail ayatollahmugsy@gmail.com. And remember, only 52 spots are available, so don't delay.

Clues emerge

I met today with Sherlock Bones, who has been furiously sniffing out clues. While looking through my parents' bank statements, he found a mysterious ATM transaction in White Settlement. To those unfamiliar with North Texas, that is the actual name of a town near Fort Worth. As far as I know, my parents would have no reason to go anywhere near White Settlement. This is most vexing, my flock. Most vexing, indeed.

Even more disconcerting, Sherlock Bones tracked down my mother's cell phone records and found a series of mysterious calls. We are working now to identify the recipients of these calls and will return with any information we find so that the congregation can analyze the data. Pray for Sherlock Bones' success ...

Mystery at the compound

I can't quite put my paw on it, but something strange is afoot at the ayatollah compound. My parents seem to be up to some sort of shenanigans, and I suspect that we are in for a major change. Yet they have been mysteriously tight-lipped. Are they preparing a surprise feast for me? Will they be quitting their jobs and moving me to an Italian villa better befitting my status as the world's foremost canine religious authority? Or perhaps their motives are more sinister -- could they be plotting against the ministry? I don't want to jump to conclusions, but their behavior is beginning to worry me. Secrets are meant to be the ayatollah's domain only. So I have called in a private investigator to get to the bottom of this. Godspeed, Sherlock Bones.

I have a dream