Beating the heat

Hey, everybody, Wendell here again. It is HOT outside. I was born last August and didn't go outside much my first couple of months, so this is my first real taste of the Texas heat. When it's this hot, a pug's gotta do whatever he can to stay cool. Fortunately, I don't share my big brother's aversion to water. So I've been hittin' the hose pretty frequently.

Ahhhh .... so refreshing.

The humans won't let me come back inside before I dry off, so I try to help them out. Now you're probably wondering how Mugsy beats the heat. Well, he has his own favorite method:

Air conditioning.

Uga: 1998-2008

Like Mugsy, I'm a Sooner pug. But I still recognize that the University of Georgia has one of the coolest mascots around. Sadly, Uga passed away last night. The sixth bulldog to roam the sidelines in Athens, he was the winningest mascot in school history, guiding the football team to an 87-27 record during his tenure. We'll miss you, Uga.

More human tomfoolery

It happened again: Pops sent us outside when he heard the repairman drive up. You'd think he'd have learned his lesson. Last time, the Maytag repairman (yes, those commercials are a total sham) said he couldn't fix the oven. He had to order a part. Order a part! If dad had just let us pugs inside, Mugsy could have fashioned a new part out of stray piles of fur. Seriously, Mugsy can do anything. At least, that's what he tells me. So anyway, the part finally arrived, and out we went. Then, through the glass door, we saw a fireball erupt from the oven. Yeah, it's still not fixed; the human repair guy ordered the wrong part. I'm starting to think Big Brother is on to something with his plans for canine rule.

Anyway, just wanted to fill you all in on the latest at the compound. Mugsy's been doing well after his surgery and will go to have his stitches out next week. He should be back blogging soon. Oh, gotta go; mom just broke out a new pack of rawhide! Peace, out.

xoxo,

Wendell

Outside looking in

Hi, all. Wendell here again. Mugsy and I are out in the back yard -- thank God for wireless Internet. It looks like we may be stuck here till the appliance repairman leaves. Like Mugsy says, how is the guy going to fix our oven properly without us standing two feet away to bark nonstop guidance? I think father's making a big mistake ...

Ugly dogs! Clones! And God arrested!

Hi, everybody. Wendell here. Big Brother told me that I need to keep his blog updated while he's recuperating from surgery, and that's not a duty I take lightly. Even though I occasionally bite him and get on his nerves, I have nothing but respect and admiration for the big fella. Had the ayatollah not taken me under his wing when I first arrived at the compound, my only role models would be our human parents. And nobody wants that. So I'm going to try to make Mugsy proud. Here's a roundup of some news that might interest the congregation:

Congratulations are in order for Gus, who was crowned the world's ugliest dog over the weekend at the Sonoma-Marin Fair in California. Gus has one eye, almost no hair, and he's rockin' three legs. But still, he's kind of cute. Not pug-puppy-cute, mind you, but cute. He's no threat to the dynasty of ugliness that was the late, great three-time champ Sam. Fortunately, there were no scandals in this year's contest like the one in the 2006 competition.

The congregation might also be interested to learn that a California company will give away a free dog cloning to the pet owner who best pleads his or her canine's case for immortality. BioArts International says it will accept submissions for the Golden Clone Giveaway in the form of 500-word essays submitted by 3 p.m. today. The ayatollah has made clear his feelings on the matter, so I strongly discourage you from entering.

Finally, you may have heard that God was arrested on a charge of selling cocaine near a Florida church. Don't worry; Mugsy assures me it's not that God.

Post-op pug

Greetings, my flock. I am recovering from surgery at the ayatollah compound. I went under the knife on Friday to have some spots removed before they turn into something dangerous. In my short time on this orb, I have been through numerous operations. In fact, I now have more stitches and scar tissue than the buffoons on satellite TV's "Cutlery Corner."




But that which does not kill me only makes me hungrier. My appetite is fully restored, and I am rapidly regaining my strength. Last night, I even briefly gave chase to young Wendell, before my parents intervened to settle me down. Although I am doing well, my veterinarian wants me to take it easy for the next week or two. So I will be temporarily turning over my blogging duties to young Wendell. I believe he is ready to take on such a major responsibility, and he should bring a fresh, young perspective to the pulpit. God willing, he will help the ministry capture some of the coveted "tween" demographic.

Naval exercises grow

WASHINGTON (AP) -- The Armed Revolutionary Forces ratcheted up its show of naval might early Friday, with dozens of submarines surfacing off the coastlines of each of the world's continents.

Pentagon and independent military analysts alike expressed shock over the immense size of the canine-helmed fleet, which before this week had been thought to consist of just two pugs, a rubber ducky chew toy and an inflatable raft. Even more disturbing, Pentagon officials said, was the growing interspecies cooperation on display.

"Ayatollah Mugsy, the ARF's spiritual leader, seems to have tapped into the zeitgeist of the animal kingdom," said Doug Jones of the RAND Corp., a nonprofit research organization.

Off the Irish coast, Labrador retrievers conducted joint exercises with a pod of dolphins. Witnesses said the dolphins appeared to have missiles mounted on their fins, and analysts suspected they had defected from a top-secret U.S. Navy program because of the ARF's superior food rations.

Half a world away, a clan of barking sea lions set up a naval blockade near the Golden Gate Bridge. The marine mammals, which swore allegiance to Ayatollah Mugsy last fall, were boarding and searching all ships entering and exiting San Francisco Bay.

The ayatollah reportedly set the naval exercises in motion in response to public comments that were deemed a threat to his Pug Life Ministries. "This show of force seems to be having the desired effect," said the RAND Corp.'s Jones. "I suspect that any human would think twice before challenging the ayatollah's authority."

Show of force

ABOARD THE HMS GREYHOUND, Gulf of Mexico (AP) -- The world's largest interfaith, interspecies ministry flexed its naval muscles Thursday in a massive show of force off the Texas coast.

Members of the Armed Revolutionary Forces (ARF) naval branch engaged in exercises across a broad swath of the Gulf of Mexico, with upwards of 8,000 seadogs taking part. The ARF is the military wing of Pug Life Ministries, led by the enigmatic Ayatollah Mugsy.

The exercises included artillery bombardment, torpedo targeting and a scuba demonstration by the elite special-operations Chihuahua Force. Details on the Chihuahua Force are sketchy, but its members are rumored to be experts in dog-paddling and underwater demolitions, as well as highly trained assassins.

The show of force is believed to be the result of a heightened alert level at the ministry, whose leader has at times been called insular and paranoid. Officials at Ayatollah Mugsy's office declined to comment.

The U.S. Navy scrambled F/A-18 fighter jets in response to the ARF naval exercises, but Navy officials, speaking on the condition of anonymity, said they wanted to make sure the situation did not escalate.

"So far, these dogs are just engaging in training exercises," said one high-ranking admiral. "The last thing we want to do is provoke them."

Ministry on alert

Pug Life's intelligence services have reported an increase in negative chatter, leaving me no choice but to raise the collective hackles of the ministry to DEFCON 3. For those who prefer their alerts to be color-coded, this would be somewhere between fuchsia and periwinkle in the Crayola box. At this heightened alert level, you may notice more frequent heavy breathing or panting on the line as you engage in telephone conversations. Pay this no mind; it is for your own protection. Further details to come ...

Whirlwind day

This has been a wild season for tornadoes, my flock. Just a few weeks ago, I was in Oklahoma watching a wall cloud on TV spawn tornado after tornado, eight to 10 in all. Some fizzled out quickly, while others grew to enormous size and ravaged the countryside. The video, shot from a helicopter alongside the wall cloud and by storm-chasers on the ground, was both impressive and humbling. It was a reminder of Allah's power. And no canine knows that power better than Chase the Rottweiler. You see, the dog in suburban Chicago was picked up by a twister over the weekend. One of his human relatives, a 10-year-old, looked out the window and saw a gust of wind carry Chase four feet off the ground. Others saw the dog take flight as well. The tornado damaged buildings and shattered car windows, sending debris flying. Miraculously, Chase survived this swirling terror. After the storm, the 130-pound dog was found shaken but unharmed about a block away. Allahu akbar!

Mugsy praises court ruling

Let it be known that I commend the enlightened nation of Norway for its Supreme Court's stance on canine civil rights. In a landmark ruling handed down yesterday, the court said that police dogs are public servants, so any attack on a police dog is no different than an attack on a human officer. This common-sense ruling was long overdue, and it should be emulated the world over. Every day, brave canines risk their lives to police the unruly human population. We track down fugitives, sniff out bombs and chat with would-be child predators online to ensnare them, in concert with Dateline NBC's To Catch a Predator (what -- did you think Chris Hanson did all that work by himself?). And in return, we ask only for food and water and perhaps, God willing, an occasional belly rub.

Norway's ruling came in the case of Casper the police dog, who chased down a loathsome burglar when his human handlers could not keep up. The thief kicked and punched Casper, but Casper would not back down. Like any dedicated police dog, he collared the perp.

Casper, a proud canine nation salutes you. The next doughnut is on us.

Farewell, Esther

It was a bittersweet day at the ayatollah compound. Esther, our polygamist-sect foster child, was reunited with her parents last night. While we were happy to see the smile on her face, we were also saddened by the realization that she hadn't yet had the time to repaint our chimney or repair our leaning fence. Still, the compound has never been cleaner, and we owe a debt of gratitude to Esther and her strong fundamentalist work ethic. God willing, our application for a foreign-exchange student will be approved, and our other household projects will be taken care of in short order.


Before she left, Esther presented Wendell and me with the outfits she had been sewing for us. Wendell, overcome with puppy excitement, immediately tried his on.



"Esther," I barked, "I think I will save mine for a special occasion."

What is Wendell up to?

I am worried about Wendell. He has been hoarding chew toys, piling them up on the bed. He must have gathered a half-dozen of them. He seems to harbor some kind of apocalyptic vision, brought on by $4-a-gallon gas. Earlier today, I think I saw him pricing generators on Amazon.com. Hopefully this is just a passing phase, and my little brother won't start dropping pipe bombs in the mail. But just in case, I am planning an intervention.

Endorsement for sale

I was recently watching Hardball, as we pugs sometimes do, when an epiphany struck. I had an idea to raise the profile of Pug Life Ministries -- as well as myself, its humble leader -- to new heights. In this day and age, there is no surer path to the media spotlight for a radical cleric than to be associated with a presidential candidate. How many of you had even heard of the Revs. Jeremiah Wright or John Hagee before this campaign season? So just imagine the notoriety that could be attained by one who already leads the world's largest interfaith, interspecies ministry. I had visions of a mega-Dogloo mosque, a book deal, a swimming pool filled with Milkbones. So I made some phone calls. First one candidate, and then another. Then another, still. And all gave me the same answer: Thanks, but no thanks.


It seems that none of the contenders wanted my endorsement. My sermons on canine rights, my strict fatwas and my connections to alleged terrierist groups have been deemed too radical, too far out of touch with mainstream American values. Fair enough. I figure that if I wait a week or so, at least one candidate's desperation will lead her to come crawling back to me.

Flagging support

I sense disloyalty in the ranks, my flock. All may appear rosy on the surface, but one does not reach my stature without a strong sense of paranoia and an ability to sniff out infidels. For Pugistan to be strong, it must be built on the backs of true patriots -- followers who would lay down their lives for the ministry, or at least throw it a bone every now and then. A single weak link could bring the entire ministry crashing down -- and with it the long-held dream of a sovereign canine nation. Yes, my flock, it is time for a mass excommunication to purge the infidels among us. But there is one problem -- a big one. Though I sense this disloyalty, I cannot prove it. Unfortunately, we are bereft of a flag to unite us. Without a flag, there can be no flag lapel pins. And with no flag lapel pins, there can be no accounting of Pugistan's true patriots.

Surely you see my quandary. God willing, we will soon find a Betsy Ross of our own.

Sect's big day in court

Today, my flock, a momentous ruling was handed down. An appeals court found that the state of Texas greatly overstepped its bounds when it seized more than 400 children from a polygamist sect ranch in Eldorado. I had long expected such an outcome, as the state's case seemed rather dubious from the start. Several weeks ago, officials with Child Protective Services played up the number of children from the ranch who had suffered broken bones. But those who bothered to look into the numbers would find that the percentage of sect children who had broken bones was actually lower than that of the general population. Children, you see, are clumsy.

The ruling means that our foster child, Esther, could soon be returning home to the ranch. Though she is enjoying her stay at the ayatollah compound, she was clearly pleased with the thought of reuniting with her mother. So Wendell and I took her to a karaoke club this evening to celebrate.

Having led a sheltered life, Esther did not know any of the popular-music selections available -- not even the classic "Baby Got Back." So she instead performed an a capella version of one of the songs she'd learned at the Yearning for Zion Ranch. The audience quickly grew restless, and I feared that tomatoes would fly. But thankfully, Wendell and I were able to defuse the situation and win over the crowd with a stirring rendition of our old standby, "Ebony and Ivory."

Raising the roof

I awoke early Monday morning to a thud on the roof. Then another. Wendell and I did what any self-respecting canines would do: We barked. And we surveyed the house. From room to room we ran, and in each spot the pounding persisted overhead. Was the compound under attack, perhaps by those nefarious chew toys? Or were the members of the Jedi church wing of Pug Life Ministries right -- had space aliens arrived? We returned to the bedroom to wake our parents, who for some reason were trying to sleep through the racket. "Mugsy," father said groggily, "it's just the roofers. Remember? They're replacing the roof."

I gave father a cold, piercing, incredulous stare. Nearly $5,000 of my rawhide fund, gone forever. And all because of his impetuous impatience.

True, the roof needed to be replaced. It was bombarded, along with every other home in the neighborhood, by a furious hailstorm. Why Allah had sent this wrath down upon my humble abode, I cannot say. But I suspect He was punishing me for not selling enough merchandise and raising enough money to serve His purpose. God willing, my beloved flock's generosity will spare me from a recurrence of this maelstrom.

Yes, the roof needed to be replaced. But to hire professionals, when our polygamist-sect child Esther had almost finished reading the shingles chapter of her Popular Mechanics library book, this was just too much. "Father," I barked, "I don't even know who you are anymore."

Wendell on the warpath

This is Wendell. Big Brother Mugsy has been busy working on a top-secret project, so he asked me to fill you in on my training efforts. In addition to my studies, I've been working out with the Armed Revolutionary Forces (ARF). Mugsy says it's unlikely that I'll see any combat, but he felt I could use the discipline -- much like Prince Harry over in England. So I've been getting lots of exercise and learning various canine combat techniques. Just this morning, I learned that a human male can be incapacitated for several seconds with a sharp and unexpected bite to the nipple.

My favorite training exercise involves hunting a tennis ball. I could literally do this all day, but the trainers always seem to tire of it before I do.

Here's a photographic guide to a recent hunt:


The ayatollah, peace be upon him except when I am biting his tail, was there to supervise.


I spotted a tennis ball and was off like a lightning bolt. I can reach any spot in the back yard in 0.3 seconds or less.


I was close enough to taste its felty goodness.


I moved in ...


... and then, in an oddly catlike manner, I pounced.


With my prey helpless to escape, it was time for a victory lap.




And then it was time to rest.


Don't I make a fearsome soldier?


Well, don't I?!?

Holy ground

I have been most impressed in recent days by this massive sinkhole in southeastern Texas. Its appetite appears to be nearly as voracious as my own.

Mazel tov, Israel

Today, Israel celebrates its 60th anniversary. So Pug Life Ministries has dispatched an envoy (pictured above) from its Jewish wing to help the Israelis mark the occasion. The world's largest interfaith, interspecies ministry could do no less.

Sixty years and one day ago, the Jewish nation did not exist. And then, it did. This offers hope to stateless canines everywhere. Since the days of Abraham, dogs have begged for a nation of their own. Yet the humans, being typically dense, assumed our four-legged forebears were merely begging for food.

We shall beg no more. Pugistan is there for the taking, my flock. And with God as my witness, I will make it happen. I will lead us to the promised land.

Tell me a dog couldn't lead this country

A proposal recently landed on my desk. It was a business opportunity, a chance for the ministry to invest in a daring new real estate development. The pitch, from the U.S. Defense Department, went something like this:

"War-torn Iraqi capital seeks investors for luxury hotels, upscale retail outlets, high-end condominiums and an amusement park. Must be willing to tolerate blistering heat, sandstorms and daily mortar attacks."

For further details on this 100 percent real plan that the Pentagon has cooked up, I urge you to read the story here. In addition to battling a years-long insurrection, it seems the Pentagon has been drawing up these blueprints as part of its five-year, $5 billion development "dream list" for the Green Zone, which of late has come under almost daily rocket and mortar fire as conditions in Baghdad have deteriorated. For a frame of reference on the Pentagon's desired timeline, it was roughly five years ago that President Bush declared "mission accomplished" in the Iraq war.

I gave this investment opportunity all the consideration it merited. But as enticing as the idea of a "Tigris Woods Golf and Country Club" was (the Pentagon's name, not mine), I decided to move on to more plausible endeavors. You know, things like offers for affordable swampland and investment deals from Nigerian princes with long e-mail addresses.

Torch update

I have been unable to blog these last few days, as I was busy putting out diplomatic fires regarding Pugistan's Olympic torch run. So I will give a brief recap to those of you who were not pre-selected by my security apparatus to watch the relay. The torch arrived as planned, and I promptly used it to toast some marshmallows as well as a scrumptious batch of halaal weenies. After dining on marshmallow goo and hot dogs, I passed the torch to my little brother, Wendell. And this is where the relay began to go downhill.

Wendell flew right past the next three runners, essentially sprinting four legs of the relay himself while also setting a handful of bushes on fire. Given his supernatural speed and quickness, the other runners were unable to catch him. Finally, mother coaxed the torch away from Wendell by bartering for a pair of Milkbones. The relay then continued on a somewhat normal schedule for the next hour or so before an overzealous member of the Armed Revolutionary Forces (ARF) got overly territorial and, to the great displeasure of the Chinese, extinguished the flame.

Carrying a torch

It has been a momentous day for the Pugistani nation, as we secured our first-ever Olympic torch relay. After a series of troubled torch runs around the world, rife with anti-China demonstrations and shortened routes, the torch had been set to return to China following Tuesday's run in Vietnam. But I picked up the Pug Life phone and made an urgent call, waking Chinese President Hu Jintao at 3 a.m. "Hu," I barked, "you must send the torch to Pugistan. China is the pug's ancestral homeland, and the ties between us run deep. Plus, God willing, I would like to roast some marshmallows." I then assured President Hu that there would be no protests to embarrass his nation -- my ability to suppress dissent is legendary, and no Tibet-loving Lhasa Apso is going to steal my thunder. After consulting with his godless communist cohorts, President Hu agreed to formally recognize Pugistan as a nation and send the torch to the ayatollah compound, where it is scheduled to arrive in the morning via UPS.

Tomorrow, I will pass the torch to my little brother to officially kick off our relay and usher in a new era of international respect for Pugistan. Allahu akbar! Then I will pray that young Wendell does not burn the house down with one of his wild figure-eight sprints.

So far, so good

Esther, our new foster child, seems to be adapting well to her new environment. With its satellite TV, wireless Internet and squeaking toys, the ayatollah compound is worlds apart from Esther's old home on her cloistered West Texas ranch. The technology of the modern world was completely foreign to young Esther, but she has already mastered the dishwasher and vacuum. God willing, she will take to the hedgetrimmers with similar aplomb and lack of bloodshed.

Esther misses her mother greatly, but she has confided in me that she is happy to be away from the Yearning for Zion Ranch. Though she described certain idyllic charms consistent with a typical third-world upbringing, Esther also spoke of an atmosphere of cruelty at the polygamist compound. Worst of all, she said, was the constant teasing and ridicule of the other children, who had been calling her a spinster since her 11th birthday.

My polygamist protege

It has been an exciting day at the ayatollah compound. Esther, our new foster child, has arrived after being plucked from the clutches of a West Texas polygamist compound. A judge this week ordered that Esther and 436 of her peers be placed in foster homes while the court awaits DNA test results and sorts through one of the most complex custody cases in state history. So now Wendell and I have a new protege and playmate to keep us company while our parents are at work. Esther is rather quiet and reserved, but we have found her to be tidy and an excellent cook -- her Milkbone casserole was delicious. As a 12-year-old, Esther was taught years ago that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. She is also quite handy with a needle and thread, and she has promised to sew a new outfit for Wendell as soon as she finishes vacuuming the house.

The interrogation of Bella Rose: Part II

Bella's piercing eyes peered out from her cell. A prolonged, guttural growl escaped her lips, despite the muzzle she wore. She appeared to be strapped to a large steel board by some kind of doggy straitjacket. "I've been expecting you," she snarled, a wave of stench accompanying her breath. "Come closer. Closer ..."

I edged toward the thick bars of Bella's cell, studying her frightful visage. Her skin twitched, and her eyes darted around the room. "Bella," I spoke, "you have some information that I need. I am here to retrieve it."

"You want the rawhide, eh?" she growled. "Noticed it missing, did you?"

That was exactly why I was here. The enriched rawhide. A huge quantity had gone missing the night of the Pug Life Telethon. I kept this theft a secret from the International Atomic Energy Agency, but in truth, it had set the ministry back years. "Where is the rawhide, Bella?" I barked.

"Squid pro ... quo?" she barked. I studied her face. "You have no idea what you're talking about, do you, Bella?" Her eyes darted to the floor. "No," she admitted. "Listen, Bella," I barked, "I am not here to play games. If I were, I'd have brought my tug-of-war rope. Now either you volunteer some information, or I will force it from you."

Mindful of the result of our last epic battle, Bella nodded slowly and began to tell a rambling tale. She admitted she'd taken the rawhide, four tons of it, and gone into hiding. "And then," she said, "I took a lover ..."

"Bella!" I interrupted. "T-M-I." I tasted a hint of vomit in the back of my mouth.

"But you don't understand, ayatollah," she said. "This is where the rawhide went -- I gave it as a gift. Perhaps you have heard of my whippet friend."

No, it could not be! I knew exactly who Bella spoke of. It was the incredible hulking whippet. "Did this ... friend of yours eat all the rawhide?" I asked. She shook her head. "No, a small amount remains," she said. "I will give you the address."

Now that I had the information I sought, there was but one more consideration: Bella's soul. But as I studied her crazed, twitching face, a realization hit me. I could probably cast out the demons inside her, but Bella would still be what we in the business call a "bad dog." Her soul is like a low-rent tenement house for evil forces. An exorcism might cure her for now, but there was nothing to prevent her from inviting the demons back in. Much as it pained me to do so, I knew there was no other choice.

"Farewell, Bella," I barked. "I will pray for your redemption, and I will try to find a permanent solution to free you of your demonic influence. But for now, it is best for all involved that you remain under lock and key."

The interrogation of Bella Rose

"Wait here," I barked. "If I'm not back in eight hours, have the humans drive you home. Then contact Supreme Commander Brody of the Armed Revolutionary Forces and tell him to initiate Operation Ichabod. He'll know what to do from there." Wendell nodded intently before becoming distracted by his tail and chasing it. Could I really trust the pup with such an important mission? At this point, it seemed, I had no choice. I exited the car and stealthily made my way from the outer parking lot to the naval brig's security checkpoint. Using skills I had picked up while boarding with a ninja family on Mount Shibutsu, I slipped past the guards unnoticed. The shadows provided cover as I made my way to the commanding officer's quarters. Then I pawed at the door.

Adm. Jacobs looked surprised when he saw me on his welcome mat, but he invited me in. I raised my paw to shake his hand. Being a cat owner, he seemed impressed. "We have to talk," I barked. "I must see Bella tonight." The admiral tried to dissuade me. The Chihuahua is too dangerous, he told me. "No one enters her holding block. No one."

I nonchalantly pushed my beard to the side and took hold of the medallion I wear around my neck, causing it to swing from side to side. My bark flowed in an even, soothing tone. Within minutes, the admiral was under my hypnotic spell.

Back outside, I traveled another 200 yards to the prison entrance. I presented the guards with a handwritten note from Adm. Jacobs. Though they seemed taken aback by its message, the guards complied, opening the sturdy steel door. One escorted me inside, where we passed through another thick door and then another. Then the guard moved back toward the doorway. "This is as far as I go," he said, his voice breaking. "You'll find the Chihuahua up there." He pointed ahead and then hurried back through the door, slamming it shut behind him. The final barrier unlocked with a thud and slowly moved to the side, urged on by the straining whine of electric gears. I moved ahead, the damp concrete cold on my paws. After passing a series of empty cells, I reached a windowless concrete wall. From there, the corridor split off to the left at a 90-degree angle. I turned and walked past three more dimly lit cells.

What I saw next chilled me to my last rawhide bone.

To be continued ...

Announcement regarding Sister Bella

Many of you know the long and sordid story of Bella the Chihuahua. She began her career with Pug Life Ministries' Catholic wing as a nun. She was not exactly sweet, but still, she was fairly innocuous. Somewhere down the line, however, she snapped. Bella returned to her ancestral homeland of Mexico, where she wreaked havoc on unsuspecting villagers as a feared bandit. Even members of the drug cartels cowered before her and the marauding gang that she directed. She was cold and merciless, leaving grievous ankle wounds from the Texas border to Mexico City. Finally, the ministry intervened, sending an elite squad of bulldog commandos to apprehend Bella. Her subsequent exorcism, in which she temporarily killed the pope and very nearly took my own life, was the stuff of both legend and nightmare. But it seemed to be effective -- for a while. Once again, the demons began to take hold of Bella's soul, causing her to lash out at the ministry and viciously attack rock star Tom Petty during last summer's Pug Life Telethon.

She escaped and was later taken into custody by federal authorities, and from there the trail went cold. Despite putting the Armed Revolutionary Forces' top bloodhounds on the case, we were unable to locate her. Until now. Yesterday, one of my top-secret moles within the White House sent me a communique regarding Sister Bella's status. It seems she is being held as an enemy combatant, deemed too dangerous to be allowed in the civilian legal system. She was transported to Jordan under the CIA's "extraordinary rendition" program, where authorities hoped to break her down and gain information from her via questionable interrogation techniques. The Jordanians are noted for their ruthlessness, their cruelty. But in this instance, they found that the blood on their hands was their own -- courtesy of a thousand bites from Bella's razor-sharp teeth. She was returned to the U.S. and sent to a maximum-security holding cell at a U.S. naval brig, where she resides today.

Tonight, I am going to visit Sister Bella. God willing, I will return to tell the tale.

Mugsy makes cryptic quasi-announcement

I have an important announcement to make, my flock. Unfortunately, it will have to wait. I am pressed for time and must get to a meeting regarding salmonella levels in the Ayatollah Mugsy Scout cookies. Do not worry; my scientists tell me the cookies should be perfectly fine for human consumption. Please check back later for this major announcement regarding high-stakes espionage, the U.S. government and Sister Bella.

A real hoot

This evening, I ventured to a local sports bar to dine and watch a little Final Four action. Around halftime, the waitstaff began linking together several tables for a large party. Finally, a dozen or so rowdy girls took their seats. They each appeared to be roughly 10 or 11 years old, and all wore orange and white tank-tops with "Hooters" emblazoned on the chest. My mother found this apparel to be somewhat disturbing on lasses so young. I, on the other paw, have nothing against owls. But it did pique my curiosity. Were they members of a sporting team called the Hooters? Or perhaps involved in some sort of mentorship program with the restaurant chain of the same name? I know this blog, representing the world's largest interfaith, interspecies ministry, has a fairly wide reach. So if anyone out there has an explanation, mother and I would love to hear it.