There are limits to how much lunacy even a Bull Terrier owner can endure.  I hit that limit after several weeks of daily company.  I don’t remember a time where I was so glad for a family reunion to end.  During the reunion, we had a houseful of people, much to Malcolm’s utter joy.  

     There was my mother, who thought Bull Terriers were the homeliest of dogs.  My older sister, her husband, and two daughters, ages four and nine.  Then, my younger sister, her husband, and her two sons ages one and four.  It was during this visit that I discovered exactly how much trouble one enthusiastic Bull Terrier and two four year olds could get into.  

     Malcolm was famous (or is that infamous?) for his love of mischief, he had a real nose for finding trouble.  This sixty-five pound white dog, with his two four-year-old allies, succeeded in making my house look like a nuclear disaster area. 

     I called this faction ‘Malcolm’s marauders’ which amused Dear Hubby.  However, I never used the term within earshot of the sisters.  The marauders also managed to terrorize our poor cat to where she only crept out of hiding after everyone left for the night.  

     Malcolm was in his glory.  Chaos reigned.  The dog had a blast leading his two willing victims into trouble.  Always playing the innocent bystander, he’d sit back, tail a wag, eyes twinkling with merriment, while his cohorts caught hell.  That dumb, innocent look saved his hide from both sisters’ wrath many times.  

     Okay, I admit I found it a hoot.  After all, neither sister was the least bit familiar with how much trouble a Bull Terrier could get into all on his own.  Moreover, I am guilty of not pointing out the fact that he was the leader of that small group of bandits.  Things were quiet after they left.  

     Then the new rescue dog arrived.