Lessons of Road Poodles a.k.a. Why I love my vet and his staff and why you should too, a memory by Fang. Part II

23 Apr

I’d like to say this story has a happy ending. At best I suppose you could call it bittersweet. The rest of this post could be considered somewhat graphic and it’s text heavy so skip to the page break if you need to.


The toy Bea loved most of all was selected at our local pet retailer on a standard “Find Poodle Fattening food” excursion not even two days after her arrival. The goofy corduroy elephant was at the end of the row of toys. Its nondescript gray and beige body would perfectly blend with the carpet (Yes it needs to be replaced but give me a break). It didn’t stand out from the piles of colorful and loud toys my other dogs regularly ignored and destroyed but it didn’t matter to Bea.  She loved that stupid toy. She carried it. She groomed it. “Where’s Bea’s baby?” would send her into the sick-poodle equivalent of paroxysms of joy she probably should have been able to have on our modified crate rest regimen. It surprised everyone when that question managed to be prophetic.

Despite her bath Beatrice was not exactly what one could call coiffed. Working in a dog business I had easy access to groomers and a friend of mine offered to groom her for me within a few days of her acquisition. I accepted happily and that Thursday, (Maybe 4 days since her arrival) Bea was packed off to work with me and left in the capable hands of my groomer friend for a makeover. A few hours later, looking considerably better and much tidier I went to fetch Miss Bea when I got some worrying news.

Green Discharge. Possible Pyo? Vet ASAP.

I was on the phone to Dr. A within ten minutes and after a quick office visit we confirmed the worst case scenario. Open Pyo. She needs to be spayed ASAP. Scheduled the surgery for the following Tuesday, not ideal and under anesthesia the HeartWorm may kill her in surgery but it’s worth trying. More antibiotics. Take her home.

The weekend was a blurry mix of  memories and worrying. She was an unfailingly joyful companion. You couldn’t be around her and not smile. She came with me to the park, gentle slow walks and a nap beneath the Oak trees about all she could handle, Z doubling back regularly to see Beatrice was still there. She hung out in the office, politely greeting everyone who stopped to say hello, before settling back down into the Kuranda she’d decided suited her just fine. Bea was alive. Bea was happy. Bea was safe.

Pre-surgery bath and fluff. Classy girl.

Pre-surgery bath and fluff. Classy girl.

Tuesday morning came faster and slower than I wanted. I *know* I annoyed the office with my regular check-in calls but you’d never know it. Two hours after the surgery was supposed to have finished the call came in.

Dead puppies.Unidentifiable. Rotting.

She’s lost 9lbs in uterus and dead puppy alone.

The people who did this are monsters.

It would have been wishful thinking to have her home that day. She went into shock at least twice that I know of, but she rallied time and time again. Thursday afternoon the last call of that visit.

She’s not out of the woods but she’s ready to go home. Come get her.

More antibiotics. More Pain pills. A cone, a wrap, a sleeve and a doped up, silly-feeling poodle and we were on our way home. One day made it to two. She ate somewhat, took her pills and slept on the green Kuranda I brought home, next to my bed so she didn’t have to work so hard to get out of her crate. It wasn’t peaceful exactly. We had one incident of “Poodle on the Bed” which led to some panicked stitch checking and another episode of “Poodle undoes her cone repeatedly until I concede to her lady-like manners and make her a pair of pants from vet-wrap and a tank top instead just to cover her incision. Saturday afternoon, free from her shame-cone, she cuddled with her baby and groomed him before getting what would turn out to be her last meal of tripe, chicken and rice.

Bea died that night.

Caval Syndrome and probable collapse of the atria. From a dead sleep (Morbid pun unintended) Bea shot up to a stand. She came to me on the bed, licked my hand and in under a minute she was gone, though it felt like hours. It was incredibly traumatizing. I inadvertently terrorized a group of Facebook friends with a hysterical summary of real-time events as I looked for a reputable site on dog CPR with my dog dying in front of me.

I still can’t make it through the full account of what happened and I’ll spare you and myself the details but Bea was gone. She finally had enough.

In many respects this is a horrible story. There is no happy ending. Bea is not next to me with her baby, looking up at me with her happy grin. She was abused, neglected and died in a horrible and totally preventable way. I hate the people who did that to her and I hate them more now than I did when it happened. I hate that I couldn’t save her. I hate that she’s gone.

Through all of that I still have to look hard to find the good. Bea only saw the good.

I love lists. I love checking things off and outlines. I’ve never told anyone this but six months after Bea’s death I made a list, Bea’s List.

It’s short and probably sentimental but bear with me.

1. Dr. A is a wonderful vet and a wonderful person.

The bill alone for Beatrice’s care topped out around $1200. I personally paid about 30% of it. The clinic he owns donated services and funds, his second vet donated time and Dr. A put in his own money for Beatrice.

He offered to take her if I found caring for her to be too much or too expensive and she would have lived with his family as their dog.

Six months after she died, on a routine visit with Z he came in with a book and set it in front of me. “Do you know what Caval Syndrome is?” “Yes.” “You did everything you could for her. She was going to die even if I’d been standing next to her as she was dying. She was too far gone.” I promptly burst into tears but it set my mind at ease that no, the extra walks hadn’t actually killed my dog.

2. The Kindness of Strangers is Humbling and Surprising

I posted a bit about Bea on a defunct forum as it was happening. I received numerous messages about her situation including offers from perfect strangers for financial assistance. In retrospect I wish I’d taken them up on it so their gift for Bea could have been passed on to others in need.

The tiny leather-clad men who helped me drag her from the ditch.

The man in the white pickup who turned his truck sideways to block an entire direction of highway when the guy behind him was getting impatient with the dog running across the road.

So many others I’ve long since forgotten.

3. Vets are Human too

I’ve neglected to mention some of the negative experiences in this story mainly because they’re not that important. An e-vet made a mistake. Another vet asked why I didn’t put the dog down before sinking the money into her. (Really.) Conversely, I know my vet probably cried when Bea died. Some vets are just douchebags with DVMs (Unless you’re UPENN special), but most are just people who give a damn trying to help.

4. Ordinary can be important

Bea was a plain girl. She liked plain things. Simple can be elegant and ordinary things that people do matter too.

5. Always Stop the Car

Bea’s elephant and collar sit on my shelf next to the other mementos of dogs past; Mac’s leather collar, Lucy’s red nylon and those who departed afterwards Asta’s leather collar and likely soon H’s matching twin. I still get a jolt when

I walk into my vet’s office and see Miss Bea’s picture on the wall. “Helping Hand Recipient. Thank You”.

I walk by the green Kuranda bed, now outside and sometimes I swear I see her on it from the corner of my eye. Just shadows. Floaters. No Bea.

I’d like to say I think of her every day, but I don’t. Sometimes weeks pass when something silly grabs my attention and makes me think of Bea, the Road Poodle and then my heart hurts a little for what should have been and then I smile or hold back tears or both.

Two weeks. Two horrible wonderful weeks. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Someone asked me once, “Why Beatrice?” “What? She was there?” “No, why the name?” “Oh. I don;t know it just came to me. She looks like a Beatrice. Queen Bea.” It wasn’t until later that I bothered to look it up.

Beatrice: Italian form of Beatrix. Latin feminine form of of Viator. Voyager. Traveler.

Road Poodle indeed.

Bea PlayBeatrice

M the Malinois arrived about a month after Bea’s departure. His arrival had been delayed by her illness and my wonderful breeder understood and regularly checked in to ask about Bea’s condition. Now another puppy is set to arrive and April has become a month of emotional upheaval and I figured I should shove some of it on all of you since that’s what you’re here for: Fang’s emotional catharsis.


Loved and Lost. Ever Joyful.

Lessons of Road Poodles a.k.a. Why I love my vet and his staff and why you should too, a memory by Fang. Part I

22 Apr

A few years ago I was driving home from my decidedly unglamorous job of getting yelled at by pet people, when the guy in front of me braked suddenly. Road-ragey tendencies not withstanding clearly something was wrong. One barely missed middle finger when what should I see bounding across the four-lane highway but a brown poodle-y thing.

“Well shit.”

Thankfully being the hot-mess that I always am in my car that also doubles as a closet to Narnia were several leashes and one pissy cattle dog who would just have to hold her horses for three damn minutes while I chase this terrified dog down a state highway in temperatures in the high 80s at 3:30pm with my slip leash and a prayer. Clearly fulfilling every stereotype about how fat girls can’t run (No I really can’t) I bolted slowly after the dirty scared dog who still managed to stop traffic two times in the time it took for me to get flipped off by not one, but five drivers. P.S. Thanks assholes. Clearly I had it all under control.

Finally a horn being honked managed to scare said highway poodle-y thing so much that she ran into a drainage pipe because that afternoon couldn’t possibly get much worse. Thankfully, luck and some very helpful dog lovers/motorcycle types were on our side literally and figuratively and while I blocked one end of the culvert, a very tiny man crawled in after her with my trusty slip-lead and a lot more balls than I was blessed with. He came out very swiftly with Dirty poodle-y thing who upon further exam was actually in fact a Standard poodle who was too scared and exhausted to do anything but lean on me. So back to the car we trudged, complete with a Sheriff’s deputy stopping to ask about the dog who stopped traffic. “I got her. It’s fine.” And we were left alone.

Z at the time was in her ultimate “Thug ACD” phase. She hated all dogs who she wasn’t forced to share a Mama with and even then she wasn’t fond. I fully expected to have to tie her to the roof rack to get this poodle into the vehicle. I opened the door, Z hit the entry like she was going to be a snot as per usual but she stopped, sniffed the poodle and promptly sat herself in the front seat doing her best impression of a chauffeur, hardly acknowledging this interloper’s presence. We got home in under five minutes and I dragged my spare crate onto the porch. Road Poodle was wobbly with exhaustion and who knew what else at that point so I led her to the crate anticipating her fear and was totally stunned when she climbed in herself and promptly lay down for a snooze.


Within two minutes of arriving home she was out like a light.

Within two minutes of arriving home she was out like a light.


It took about an hour while I figured out what exactly I was supposed to do with this new addition. She was filthy and her belly was so distended I figured she was probably pregnant. My vet was over an hour away and would be closing at 5. Even if I could make it there on time there’s no guarantee they’d see her that night and someone must be looking for her. So I called my boss. “Who local can be helpful?” “Dr. A. Tell them you work for us. They’ll scan her for you. He’s a poodle guy.” Meanwhile Road Poodle had woken up enough to wonder where the hell she was and what the hell had happened.

"What the hell? Where am I?"

“What the hell? Where am I?”

It was a quick trip to Dr. A’s. We were there less than five minutes before he came out, scanners in hand and the techs checker her all over for some sign that at one point someone wanted to to know where she was. They checked her for tattoos under her laeyers of filth and commented that while distended they didn’t feel puppies in there. It was probably gas and an extremely heavy worm-load.

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Call poodle rescue and probably put up some flyers.”

Don’t try too hard to find the owners. They don’t deserve her. Call me before you take her to animal control

I took her to work with me that evening. She needed a bath, I didn’t feel like doing it entirely by myself and having someone else dry her while I made phone calls was appealing. So I bathed her and left others to dry her while I looked up and called every reasonably close (4 hours) Poodle rescue and left messages about a found female poodle who was as it turns out a very clear white and with a shaved face because you can’t have a fuzzy faced poodle. It’s like the law.

Still not a cream, Kamie. Minus 2 points. :P

Still not a cream, Kamie. Minus 2 points. :P


I called Dr. A’s and made an appointment to get her vetted and drew up some generic “Found Poodle. If missing call to describe” posters I would later half-heartedly distribute around to vets, pet stores and eventually the pound.” In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was dumped likely out of a vehicle at a stop sign and left to die on the side of a major state-crossing road. The only calls I recieved the next day, aside from Dr. A’s confirming my appointment were from the breed rescues offering assistance and informing me that there were no Standard Poodles reported missing at all who might fit that description as well as a lovely lady who I had a nice chat with and she called me “dear”. I forget her name and the content of the conversation but had I chosen to give her to a rescue, I would have picked that one. It actually felt like someone other than me in real life gave a damn about her.


My other dogs meanwhile had decided the RP was good peeps. I forgot to latch the crate that morning after taking her out for her morning constitutional and came in to find Z had opened it (It was her crate afterall) and she was actually grooming this other bitch who had wandered into her house, taken her crate and even had the gall to eat from her dish. It’s still amazing to me that my crazy bitch of a dog knew more about compassion than everyone else on that highway that afternoon. I’m still humbled by it and I love her for it more now than I did then.

Z was fat, this I know.

Z was fat, this I know.


Off to the vet we scurried and a moderately cleaner and semi-groomed RP got signed in for her first official vet visit in who knows how long.


“Beatrice. Bea. She feels like a Bea.”

As expected she had every worm under the sun including a hefty load of heartworms. FastKill had just about disappeared off the market at this point and frankly Bea was too fragile for it currently anyway. We had to get her worms in check first, get some weight on her and then we’d reconsider our options. Fine. So off home we went with enough poison to take down any helminths in our path and a script for Doxy, because it’s a good idea in combo with FastKill. Alright fine.

Things were okay for a bit. Nothing major happened. Bea stayed home, was a happy dog for a bit and with her first toy acquisition it seems I’d made Bea’s life.




…and Part II will be up tomorrow. :)

Sex Toy or Dog Toy Saturday: Coochie & The Blowfish Edition

20 Apr

There are so many awkward jokes we could make here, but we’ll spare you since we’re feeling charitable.  So minions, which one of these fish is the PG-finding Nemo dog toy and which is better suited for finding your G-Spot?



Option A

Option A


Option B

Option B


Ok, now that you’ve grossed yourself out with fish jokes (admit it, you went there), are you ready for the answer?


Option A is called the “Rub my Fishie” (ew) and is indeed the sex toy.  Those eyes are super creepy.  Would you want that staring you down?  Nope.   Option B, despite having a look of fear in its eyes, is a dog toy meant for Fido.


"That's what Option A said"

“That’s what Option A said”



WTF Wednesday: D Cup Edition

10 Apr

Just what every dog needs–lingerie…to chew on.

Screen Shot 2014-04-09 at 8.26.24 PM

So the idea is that giving them these realistic lingerie chew toys will “keep Fido from munching your unmentionables” (ew).  And according to their website,  “These canine pleasers make a squeaky sound when chomped upon – just like YOU would if you were wearing them” (double ew).  Hey sicko, here’s an idea,  just give your pooch a questionable dog toy like the rest of us and call it a day.


Ok…and then there’s this fascinating tidbit found on a site for ANOTHER company that sells dog toy lingerie…

Screen Shot 2014-04-09 at 8.27.31 PM

People are buying these items as a package deal? What?  Are they starting a canine brothel?  Are they putting poor Muffy to work on the street corner to earn her keep?   All that is missing is pantyhose…oh wait…

Sex Toy Saturday

6 Apr

It’s Saturday.  You know what that means.   Time to make you really uncomfortable yet again.  So minions, which of the following belongs in your dog’s mouth and which belongs in your….erm….purse?

Option A

Option B

Questioning all those times your grandmother told you to never leave home without your lipstick?  Ready to answer?  Good.


Option A is a Petco lipstick dog toy and Option B is an “incognito” lipstick vibrator.    That’s right.  It goes on “those” lips.   Of note, both claim to be durable and made to withstand hours of aggressive play.   Fantastic.


WTF Wednesday

3 Apr

Poopsy Pets literally poop rainbow, glitter, and jewels.   And then eat it again.   Then shit it right back out.  

yeah, and we bet your shit don’t stink either.

This is a serious issue, people.  Poopsy Pets clearly suffer from Coprophagia .Instead of amusing us for hours, this dog clearly needs to see a veterinary behaviorist.  Wait no. That’s not even a dog. That’s a unicorn. Who do you take mythical creatures in need of immediate medical attention to?

And what does this teach our chlildren about potty training?  There’s nothing magical about it. This doll teaches children it’s okay to eat one’s own feces (And also that it’s okay to match your pets but that’s a different post.)

At least Bowel Movement Barbie  comes equipped with a pooper-scooper but the dog is also on a flexi so we’re not really sure who we disapprove of more in this situation.

You’re welcome

1 Apr

The Dog Snobs have an exciting Announcement to make….


We will be releasing a line of calendars, mugs and commemorative statues of shirtless men holding furry creatures. That’s right, starting next week you can buy your own Official Dog Snob “Fluff and Flex” memorabilia   We know how much you’ve loved the random hot men who pop up in our blog posts, so we thought we would save you the trouble of searching through your browser history and bring them all to you in one place!

Meow Chika Meow Meow

We think he’s confused about the weather, but we’ll let him hold our sweater puppies.

No, no. The goat jokes are too easy.


G’day Mate!
**Keep an eye out next week for more information on how to order your Fluff & Flex gear.  We hope you’re as excited as we are!**

Yahoo Answers….we can’t quit you

1 Apr

We should know better than to read Yahoo answers.  No good can ever come of it.  We lose brain cells.  We yell at our computer screens.  We stress eat.  And yet, we can’t look away.  So here, once again, are our responses to some recent Yahoo answers questions we came across.  The stupid…it hurts.



It depends.  Is it whole wheat?  Organic?  The future is actually in gluten-free, so you might want to look into how to bread those too.   And we prefer our dogs living, so we aren’t really sure if you could profit off of non-living ones.



Because giving a puppy as a gift is ALWAYS a good idea.   No really, just don’t do it.  People like surprises, but living breathing surprises are generally a bad idea.   Maybe save the big red ribbon for a pet rock or a nice bottle of wine.



Step 1:  Take picture of dog.

Step 2: Print out. Preferably in color.

Step 3:  Tape on Alpo can.

You’re welcome.



Um, what?  Go home Yahoo answer poster, you’re drunk.



Ok, hold up.  Isn’t this something you should, you know, talk to your “breeder” about.  Why on earth are you asking strangers on the internet?  Let us guess…you purchased this dog from a website with a paypal button and an online shopping cart feature.


You’re new to this?  Noooo.  We never would have guessed.  Seriously.  If you don’t know how to do that, how are you going to deal with whelping?  This is a disaster waiting to happen.  Call a vet.  Now.



Is he staring at your vayjayjay or is he just following you into a room because he wants to be near you?  This is an important distinction.  Really though, it’s not that weird that your dog wants to be near you.  You could always close the door though if you’re concerned.  It’s as easy as 1…2…shut the damn door! The more important question to ask is whether you like that your dog seems to like to watch you pee?  There’s a dark corner on the internet for that stuff, and it certainly isn’t here.



We know what your dog is thinking: “Why is my owner such a dumbass?  What did I do to deserve this?  Shall I shit in her shoe now or later?”


**Missed our previous answers?  Want to relive the snark?  Check them out here  and here **




“My dog has never done that before”….

22 Mar

Today’s Public Service Announcement is brought to you by the letter “S”, as in, we really want people to stop spewing the phrase “He’s never done that before!”  Just stop.  STOP.

We’ve all heard it before, the rage inducing phrase, “He’s never done that before!”, usually following a particularly egregious display of bad dog behavior.  It seems to be the go-to phrase after a dog acts a fool and is usually in lieu of an actual apology.  When we hear this cringe-worthy phrase, we are apt to think one of two things:


1. While technically Sir Fluffykins has never actually shot across the sidewalk on his flexi-leash and bitten a stranger before,  his owner  was either unaware of or in denial about the obvious signals that the Fluffs has been showing.   Let’s be clear.  Dogs rarely, if ever, attack for no reason. We often misinterpret a dog attacking “out of the blue” and “without warning”‘ because we simply missed the signs.  Just because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean that your dog wasn’t giving every indication that he was about to go all Piranhaconda on a passerby.

But he WILL try to eat a passing cyclist

But he WILL try to eat a passing cyclist


2.  Sir Fluffykins has a canine rap-sheet longer than his shitty pedigree and the owner would rather lie about it than admit that their dog is a nuisance, or worse yet, dangerous.  


In the first scenario, as annoying as this phrase can be, we won’t throw too much shade at you as long as you actually acknowledge the issue and <gasp> take action to prevent you from becoming a repeat offender (see #2 above).  Ignoring the behavior or shrugging it off as a freak incident is only going to bite you in the ass (or more likely,  in someone else’s ass) later on.

And for those people who fall into category 2?  Suck it (also brought to you by the letter S). Why on earth would you continue to set your dog up for failure and allow them to repeatedly be an asshole?  There are so many things you can do to manage a dog with a history of dangerous behavior.  Does your dog go after anything with wheels?  Don’t take it to a skate park.  Does your dog dislike children?  Put the dog away when kids come over to your house. And if your dog is a known biter, manage the crap out of them, and if you must be around things that trigger your dog, there is no shame in putting him in a muzzle.  We’d much rather you walk around with a Hannibal Lecter look-alike than walk around acting like nothing is wrong biding your time before you tell someone else, yet again, that your dog has never done this before.  That shit gets around, and by the fifth time you’ve told someone in the neighborhood that your dog has never attacked another dog before, people will be on to you.  You know what happens when you piss off your whole neighborhood? People show up with pitch forks and torches. Or the HOA…..either way, don’t be that person.



**Tired of hearing this phrase? What about any of these others rage-inducing phrases we’ve covered before ?  Let us know in the comments!**

Owner Profile: The Mascot Moron

15 Mar


What says “I have extreme devotion to a sports team of a college I didn’t even attend” like purchasing a living breathing embodiment of that team? No, we’re not talking about that weird guy that makes his kid dress up like a pirate on game day (though we have a lot of judgement for him too…) We’re talking about the morons that buy a dog breed just because their favorite sports team is represented by one.  The Mascot Moron (MM) has attained a dog solely because they think it would be the ultimate show of school spirit…and stuff.  Things like temperament, exercise needs, and so on are rarely, if at all, considered when a MM decides to get a dog.

Next step:  Become a Mascot Moron.  Possibly add another dumb tattoo

Next step: Become a Mascot Moron. Possibly add another dumb tattoo

Common Locations:

College campuses and cities across the U.S.   The closer to a major sports team you are, the more MMs you are likely to run into.

Breeds Owned:

Most commonly Bulldogs or Huskies although other teams do have dog mascots.  That being said, we highly doubt that entire college towns are being overrun with Salukis (we’re looking at you Southern Illinois University Carbondale).

This image has inspired no one to get a Saluki ever. It looks like a smog covered, pissed off Falcor.

This image has inspired no one to get a Saluki ever. It looks like a smog covered, pissed off Falcor.


Skill Level:  

Low.  So very, very low.  Having done no other research than googling “cool names for a Husky”, the MM is woefully unprepared for the dog they end up with.

That’s still more than your owner does.   (We know this is a malamute. His owner probably doesn’t)

That’s still more than your owner does. (We know this is a malamute. His owner probably doesn’t)

Catch Phrases:

“College was the best time of my life”, “Dude, did you see the game?”, “Do you think we can teach Gumbo to do a touchdown dance?”



Anything with university logos, flip-flops year-round regardless of climate, full body paint at football games. Their dogs are also easily spotted by the jerseys and collar leash sets to match their chosen team.

Damnit. Haven’t we talked about mixing breeds?

Damnit. Haven’t we talked about mixing breeds?


Anecdotal Evidence:



If I had a dollar for every clueless idiot I saw being dragged around by a Husky in my city…I could afford to send my future child to a private college.   Scratch that.  I could buy like 1,000 Paco Collars.  Anyway,  living in a city where everyone and their hapless mother owns a Husky because they want to show their school spirit has definitely been interesting, because you know, Huskies are such easy dogs.  While there are many qualified Husky owners in my area, chances are that if one is owned by someone under 30, is accessorized in college logo gear, and has a name similar to or the same as the actual university mascot or any of the last 5 incarnations, they’re a MM.  These are generally the people you want to avoid as they literally have done nothing with their dog other than training it to bark to the school fight song (arooooooooo).   These are also the same people who can’t seem to figure out why their dog ate their limited edition throwback jersey after being left alone all day or why it scaled their four foot fence and chased a cat while being shut outside during the fantasy football draft.


I also live in a college town. Thankfully, not a dog mascot. Our mascot is the Gamecock, and while there’s plenty of irresponsible cock ownership going around… that’s not what I’m here to complain about. Nay, friends, I’m here to complain about my neighbours.The Georgians and their beloved UGA. Ah, Uga. That wrinkly face, those stubby legs, that inability to breathe so hindered by humid southern air. You know what’s slightly less of a downer than your favorite team losing the game? Your dog having a heatstroke at the tailgating party. No worries, you can just replace your beloved Uga… that’s what they do with the real mascot anyway! In fact, Uga VII and Uga VIII both lived only one year before keeling over, being buried in the stadium and then promptly replaced by another monstrosity from the same lines because if there’s one thing that the south loves more than football… it’s keeping it in the family. *

*I’m allowed to make incest jokes. I live here.

 Anyone want to admit to being a Mascot Moron? Want to throw a family member under the bus and identify them as a MM?  Going to have Saluki-filled nightmares?  Share below!


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 855 other followers