While I was at the computer yesterday, I heard intense growling and barking right outside my front door. I went outside to look, and three dogs ganged up on my dog, Deuce. I know that “Deuce” refers to two, but despite my dog’s nomenclature, he was being attacked three-to-one. Those aren’t good odds, whether you’re a canine or not.

I picked up the nearest stick that I saw and hit one of the dogs, scaring it and the rest of the dogs off. I was enraged. I called them sons of bitches (which, since they’re dogs, was true even before they attacked Deuce) and chased them throughout the yard. When they ran off, and I regained composure, I realized that what I did probably was not a smart thing to do. All those dogs had to do was realize that the odds were still very much in their favor. Deuce wasn’t going to do me any good in his beleaguered state. They would have tore me into more pieces than one.

However, none of that meant anything when I felt something brush by my leg. Deuce, my brave dog who was fighting the odds just moments earlier, stood tall and was ready to defend me. I was never prouder of any canine both now and forever. My dog…Deuce.