Thank goodness for our watchdogs, Fritz and Frannie, weighing in at nine and six pounds respectively—if you don’t count their egos. Just today alone, they saved us from our pest control man, our yard man, ten squirrels, two UPS drivers, the mailman, three birds, and—most suspicious of all—our own cats, all of whom outweigh them. I honestly don’t know what we’d do without their vigilance, especially when it comes to protecting us from our cleaning lady, who clearly shows up weekly under deep cover. Or maybe it’s just the assortment of shady things she sneaks into our house, like the dreaded vacuum cleaner and toilet bowl brush.

Their bark-to-body-mass ratio is truly astonishing. If barking burned calories, these dogs would be invisible by now. They patrol the house like elite security personnel, except instead of earpieces and tactical gear, they have bug eyes and breath that smells faintly of yesterday’s treats (and worse).

As if that weren’t enough, our macaw has also appointed himself Head of Fannon Homeland Security. He sounds off at anything that dares to move outside the window—wind, leaves, clouds with bad intentions. When the macaw registers his alarm with ear-splitting shrieks, the dogs often join in with howling, creating what I can only describe as a multi-species emergency siren. Or a raucous vocal trio. This is especially disturbing when I’m practicing the piano. I’m never quite sure whether they’re acting as my protectors, my critics, or my support singers, but I’m fairly certain the macaw is calling for backup.

But seriously, what is it about little dogs who think they can take on the world? Our two will challenge any dog at the end of a leash—or not at the end of a leash, for that matter. Never mind that the other dog weighs 150 pounds and could eat them for lunch and still be hungry. Fritz and Frannie square up anyway, convinced they are seconds away from victory and possibly a medal ceremony.

I learned long ago that this is not a new phenomenon. The Chihuahua I had as a child once chased a Great Dane half a mile until we finally caught up to her—at the Dane’s house—where the massive dog was cowering on the back porch, scratching frantically to be let in. Somewhere in that moment, the natural order of the universe quietly resigned.

I half-joke that my dogs suffer from Napoleon Syndrome, which Wikipedia defines as “a pattern of overcompensating for one’s (often perceived) shortcomings—most famously, a lack of vertical prowess—with domineering or aggressive behavior.” While this condition is typically used to describe men of small stature, I maintain it also applies to small dogs who believe volume is a substitute for mass. They particularly fit the 7th criterion for the Napoleon Complex: the tendency to engage in conflicts with perceived rivals who are larger or more dominant.

And honestly, bless them. They may not be large, fast, or remotely intimidating, but they are deeply committed to their mission. In their minds, danger is everywhere, silence is suspicious, and no Amazon package should ever approach the house unannounced.

So yes, we sleep soundly at night—safe in the knowledge that if an actual intruder ever breaks in, Fritz and Frannie will alert the entire neighborhood, summon the macaw, terrify the criminal… and then hide behind the couch until help arrives.