Leta has asked for a snack, so I reach up into a cabinet and grab some chips. Yes, chips. Filled with trans fat, high fructose corn syrup and butter. Sprinkled with tiny flakes of meth. Known to cause homicidal mania. Conveniently packaged in 100 calorie bags.

When I rip open the top of the bag the chips go flying across the kitchen floor, and Leta immediately throws her body over the multitude of scattered pieces to protect them from gunfire or maybe inclement weather.

"COCO IS GOING TO EAT MY CHIPS!" she screams.

"No, she won't," I assure her as I bend down to help her gather up the mess. "I'm not going to let her."

Just then Coco rounds the corner from the living room to the kitchen and makes a mad dash for the buffet of broken chips. I whip around, stretch out my arm with my hand upright and say, "DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, DOG."

"YEAH!" says Leta, "Don't even THINK about it, DOG."

Coco stops, whines and then rolls over in defeat. Leta continues to gather chips and intermittently shoots Coco a menacing glare. Coco makes a few unsuccessful attempts to army crawl toward the treats and then sighs when I yank her leash.

Leta grins with the realization that I am completely on her side. "Mom," she says, "we both know she is totally thinking about it."

INTERNET, GO OUT RIGHT NOW AND GET YOURSELF A FOUR-YEAR-OLD.