Today marks two years since Eric and I picked up this little guy from Tails of Hope animal shelter. Two years of trouble. Of overturned garbage cans, incessant barking, hilarious humping (Lola doesn’t find it as funny as we do), and more pug love than we know what to do with.

I will admit, we had our reservations on Rupert’s first night home with us. And possibly the second and third as well. Bribed with treats, into the crate he went, and no sooner than the lights were off and we were tucked in bed, did the howling begin. We tried to hold a strong front, but we were no match. He slept peacefully that night, snoring in between us.

While we did manage to get the crate training down, he was quite the rambunctious little pup during the day. Unlike most dogs, who have the decency to wait until you leave the room to get into trouble, Rupert has exactly zero f***s to give. He will unabashedly bury his head in the garbage can or go straight for your plate like he hasn’t been fed in days. Sometimes he’ll stand on his hind legs and swipe his freakishly raccoon-like little paws back and forth across a counter or a desk, sprawling papers and other goodies to the floor. It’s also worth noting that Rupert likes to hurl his not so little thirty-five pound body into our laps with no warning whatsoever. He seems to be under the impression that he’s your typical pint-sized pug. He is not.

It took some time and some training, but the longer he was with us Rupert’s sweet side slowly began to emerge. He loves having his chest scratched, and will happily sit for hours with his chin resting on your leg, letting you rub between his floppy ears. He’s a bit of a T.V. junkie, and he gets super into action movies, at times making an effort to join in the cinematic experience by lunging off the sofa and straight into the television set. (I’m fairly confident my husband trained him to do this as part of his multi-pronged effort to manipulate his way into a new, bigger flat screen. No Eric. No.)

As I write this, he’s huddled up right next to me in bed, curled into a little snoring ball. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy Birthday, Rupert Pugsley Giles!