My life as a dog

My Snoopy-like ears are my best asset. I can cover my eyes to express fear or hold them straight up when excited. Of course, it also helps to dance well. And as Raymond points out, I have no rhythm. Still, he says I can make it part of my shtick: the mascot everyone laughs at.

The real instruction begins on Day 2, a combination of lectures and bizarre exercises. In pairs, we run at each other until we're barely a nose apart, scream, and then stare at each other without flinching.

It's supposed to get us used to having people in our personal space. We do improvisational moves. A skilled mascot can switch instantly from imitating a machine-gunner to dancing the macarena.

Each mascot also needs a distinct personality. So we're ordered to write a biography for our characters. Jeff Byrd, who plays Buck the deer for an Iowa minor-league baseball team, talked about his Aunt Bambi and a visit to Buckingham Palace.

He's less talkative about his role as a deer around his students at University of Northern Iowa, where he teaches performance art and photography. "My work is really serious ... stuff," Mr. Byrd says.

A distinctive walk is key. I work out a cute dog walk, little steps paced with exaggerated arm motions. I practice my walk during my public debut, when Raymond asks us to amuse the crowd at a children's swim meet nearby. I'm nervous, but a padded belly improves my looks. Kids pet my belly. They scratch behind my ears.

By now, I'm getting better in the role. I can write normally with my paws. When someone asks me a question, I shake my head rather than speak.

There's definitely an appeal to donning a fuzzy suit and clowning around in public. "It's your chance to let loose, your chance to perform and no one knows who you are," says Pat McNamara, a YoUDee mascot for the University of Delaware.

We begin intense preparations for our evening performance at a women's volleyball game - a dance routine involving Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night" and "Get Down Tonight." For a finale, we'll spray party string all over Raymond.

Even under ideal conditions, my feet and hands don't want to move together. Add the costume, and it's a disaster. I'm taken aside for some remedial lessons and still relegated to the end of the line.

When halftime comes, I hit my head on the door and am completely out of step. But I manage to bounce and move my arms more like a cartoon. At the end, the crowd cheers, but I know it's not for me.

"Everyone has critiques of themselves, but that doesn't matter," Cincinnati Reds mascot Nick St. Pierre says. "It's what the crowd thinks."

The next day, we wrap up boot camp by marching in Newark's Halloween parade. Little Harry Potters, SpongeBobs, and their parents line the main street as I cram into the back of a pickup truck with eight mascots and a giant inflatable monkey.

When we get the signal to jump out and work the crowd, I waddle along, slapping hands, patting heads. A few really young kids burst into tears at the sight of me.

I stare down a few real dogs. One barks back. Adults laugh when I sniff the fire hydrant. By the end of the parade, I'm actually disappointed that there's no one else to entertain. There are worse jobs to have than one where kids are (mostly) glad to see you. People even seem more pleasant when interviewed by a guy in a fat dog suit.

Before I'm dismissed from boot camp, Raymond tells me he is impressed by my improvement. "A couple more years of solid work and we'll have you on the front lines," he says. The truth is, I probably don't have what it takes to inspire a stadium full of fans. But if you need someone to entertain at a child's birthday party, I might just be the right dog for the job.

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