A little about me...
I’m Winnie Foof. My parents say I’m kind of a butthole — but with this face? Please. I get away with everything.

I was found basically feral in rural Kansas, then shipped hundreds of miles during a global crisis. My “formative” years? Spent questioning everything that moved. They brought me inside and suddenly there were people on a glowing box, a second dog trapped in the window (spoiler: it was me), and outside was just as chaotic — strange metal beasts screaming across the grass, and yards with monsters that spray water at random. What the fresh hell?

My parents say I went through a “hyper-paranoid phase,” like I’d been sneaking too much Fox News: full of fear and conspiracy theories, convinced the neighborhood was up to something, and suspicious of everything. Still am. Unless food is involved.

But what have I learned about my 'hood since? Houses have kitchens. Kitchens = FOOD. Screaming wheel-person? Treat. Roaring grass monster? Treat. Mail carrier? Treat. Thunder? Treat. Fireworks? Treat. Yellowstone wildlife viewed safely from a Toyota? Double treat (with a doggy downer). Want me to sit, shake, or recite the Bill of Rights? Pay me.

Other stuff: I hate baths (but love rolling in cow crap), despise bugs, live for swimming and frisbee, sleep upside down like a derp, and I think my older bro is royalty.

Vote for me and my ridiculous, toofy grin. I promise treats and paranoia for all my constituents. Bribes in the forms of treats always encouraged.