Posted in Welcome



Welcome to my narrative horizon about our wacky, wondrous world. There’s no pattern to my inspiration, so my pieces range from silly and mundane to serious and heartfelt. Here I share true, slice of light pieces about family, friendship, dogs, womanhood, health and wellness, wine, education, shopping, shoes, spirituality, reading, writing, entertainment, the moon, the sun and anything else under our sky.

I am a high energy, middle-age active woman who is constantly on the move. Filled calendar pages give me pleasure and purpose, but they also stress me out and make me more scattered than your average part-time sunshine. The older, busier, and more disorganized I get, the more I need to recharge in order to relax and refocus.

This blog gives me a chance to take a timeout to savor life, collect scattered memories, highlight sunny moments, and unclog cloudier ones. I seek balance, meaning, hope, and laughter that I’ll spread like PB&J through my stories.

My professional, home, and social fronts keep me hustling while giving me stories. I am a full-time high school English teacher, mother to two adolescent daughters, pet owner to two furry dogs, wife to one witty husband, relative to many loves, and friend to those who embrace my friendship.

I’m also a part-time sunshine who strives to be lively, bright, lighthearted, and comforting. Oh how I wish I could make my sunshine status full-time, but no can do. When the sunshine zest is too exhausting, and warmth becomes a scorcher, I lose the chipper optimism you’d expect from someone with nicknames like Sunshine or Sunny D. It can be a cockadoodle-dodo world, so being constantly happy and smiley while being honest and genuine is a trick I’d like to master.

For now, I’m a part-time sunshine, at best. When frazzled, my daily mission is to dazzle and find some extra beaming reason to smile and share why.  Random rays and small warm shimmers are the best, like double rainbows at a wedding, a greeting card among the bills in my mailbox, or a spotless bedroom cleaned by my daughters (who jest that this blog should be called Full-Time Nut Job, Part-Time Sunshine.)

I invite you to follow me on my horizon.  There’s a chance of sunshine (and a handful of nuttiness) in it for you, yours, and everyone else under the sky.

Posted in Inspiration, Nature, Spirituality

Ascension Day: Salvation, Memorials, and Butterflies


Yesterday, May 25th, 2017, was Ascension Day, the fortieth day of this liturgical year’s Easter celebration.  In the following, I attempt to give a brief explanation of this Christian feast day then reveal my spiritual encounter in regards to ascension. I say attempt because it is so hard to describe the indescribable. This is a condensed version of what I witnessed, felt, and believed following the passing of my father, Frank Thomas Snyder, lain to rest on June 8th, 2006.

My father earned seventy-six years of being an earthy man full of passion for all things living, all that moves and grows in humanity and nature.  He swiftly fell back into the earth while mowing his lawn, grooming the ground, the backyard that hosted his frayed yet favorite lawn chair where he read many westerns and dreamt of cowboys.  

Although his outdoor death was so shocking at the time, I believe it was the way his body was meant to return to his own Heavenly Father of whom he placed his utmost faith. Forty days later, his soul soared.  May his Memory be Eternal!  



Symbolically and spiritually, forty days represents many biblical tribulations, reconciliations, transformations, and probations.  The fortieth day of bodily death is highly important to the Christian who believes this to mark the departed’s judgment day. Specifically relevant to the soul is that the fortieth day commemorates Christ’s Ascension after His Resurrection.  Ascension Day is when the recently deceased may ascend to be taken up in the clouds to meet the Judge, our Savior, and Master, and thus be with Him forever (1Thes. 4:17).  

Ascension Day

According to Scripture, over the course of forty days (prior to the Ascension) the Resurrected Christ appeared to his eleven remaining apostles, multitudes of disciples, and followers.  He also stood alongside disbelievers and doubters.  He arrived as proof to try to convince the world that He is indeed the Son of God who trampled death.  He shared tales of His Father’s Heavenly Kingdom and instructed others to spread the word.

After the fortieth day, the one perfect human being, Christ, ascended into heaven and sits at the right hand of the Father.  This concludes His thirty-three year-long earthly plight to save imperfect sinners and raise them to be with their Father.  This is our salvation.  

As a mere mortal, I can only make assumptions about what I deem another mortal’s soul does for forty days prior to judgment.  As many ideas as I have on this span of time, I am no theological expert, so beyond these few words, I will keep quiet on the matter.  I don’t know enough about purgatory, toll houses, soul sleeps, and other theories of how a soul performs when the body first dies. 

I simply have faith that God is good, forgiving, and wants us with Him.  I have faith that Heaven is indescribable beauty, peace, and joy.  Life after death is truly a mystery that I have no authority to attempt to explain.  Only Scripture, tradition, faith, actions, and love can give us a true sense of accepting what is beyond our understanding.  It’s a big, magnificent secret treasure that I humbly pray to discover when it’s my time.  Thy will be done.  


I believe one of the most important memorial services for the soul is on the fortieth day, and that’s when we held my father’s first requiem in July of 2006.  In our Serbian Orthodox church this special service is called a parastos (pronounced pah-rah’-stus).

Such a glorious, yet humbling parastos was offered up to my father as our church abundantly crowded with loved ones celebrating his life and death with heartfelt remembrances and meaningful prayers. The multitude of candles lit for his soul dripped with tears of sympathy.  What an emotional mourning that fortieth morning.  

A lovely family luncheon was held after this memorial service.  Following the gathering, my husband, kids, and I drove 100 miles north to return home. Cara was aged four and Elena aged two.  


When we got back, I didn’t unpack and do laundry like I usually would after a weekend trip. I needed to unwind and be away from checklists and chores.  I joined my family and Italia, our three-month-old golden retriever, at our patio and swimming pool.

The bursting thermometer and cloudless backdrop inspired frothy servings of smoothies and colorful sno-cones.  Cara and Elena, our giggly little loves, splashed and played, drenched and sprayed.  Pup Italia lapped liquid bullets while tempting the girls to squirt-gun her down, mafia style.  

While refreshing my feet poolside, Cara kept squirting Italia’s furry breast as I spied the black butterfly hover then merely skim the water.  This plain, yet somehow extraordinary, silhouette had become a part of our summer patio company, and his presence mysteriously captivated me.  He, whom I perceived as male, seemed as thick as midnight yet lightly fluttered about like butterflies do.   

I averted my gaze to this particularly unremarkable fella flickering around for his brief interludes.  With just a sheen of bluish-green scales outlined in ivory specks, his velvety shadowed wings had little décor. I always expected butterflies to personify rainbows, but I discovered that a less colorful, simpler design can also serve as a spectacular specimen.


Sailing above and then lightly diving to the earth, he lingered brushing my cheek with a kiss.  As he resumed his winged dance to the sky, I burst out of tranquility and jolted with a stifling thirst:  I needed him.  I had to hold on, or I’d dry out from my tears that could potentially flood the pool.   

I frantically jumped up screaming, “Get the net!  Where’s the butterfly net?  We have to catch that black butterfly.  He belongs here!”  Our puppy nearly rolled into the pool, while my stunned husband and daughters froze.  I chaotically shuffled through a basket of outdoor toys for the prized Dollar Bargain butterfly net.  I grasped it and leaped and stretched like a clumsy majorette trying new baton tricks.  I scooped nothing but the wind. Of course, I couldn’t catch him and had to watch him disappear into the endless sky. I whispered with humble faith, thanks, and love,  “Thy Will be done.”

In various spiritual circles, butterflies represent the spirit of the departed.  The butterfly dies as a caterpillar, is buried in the cocoon, and enters a new life.   As a majestically changed creature, it takes flight in earth before breezing through heavenly clouds.

On that fortieth afternoon after my father’s death, my grief began.  I finally accepted that he physically left this world forever.  Eternity vs. Nevermore comprise the greatest extreme opposites of time that challenged my clock that somber summer.  I could barely consider these temporal concepts and felt like I was drowning when contemplating a soul lasting forever and a body being used again never.  


Nearly eleven years later, I still grieve the loss of my father, but I take comfort that he is with God who opened up the heavens to mankind on Ascension Day, when Christ was taken up to heaven.

I also continue to perceive occasional visits by the black butterfly as something special and granted by God. My personal connection and journey with the black butterfly continues to strengthen my spiritual beliefs. I know there is no doctrine or proof in my experience, but when a beautiful black butterfly shows up precisely when I need an “extra” lift, that to me is a divine gift to encourage or reward my faith.

Many people have their own signs, symbols, and things they believe is contact from a lost loved one. Besides the black butterfly, I have felt other spiritual touches in nature via bunnies, birds, dogs, and flowers. If it leads me to spiritual thanks and praise, I consider that faith. God bless us, everyone.  

What special encounters have you had that cause you to connect, remember, and give thanks?  Memory Eternal to your lost loved ones.

Posted in Friends, Socializing, Women

Bunco Invite

dice 4

Bunco is a simple dice game that can be played by people of all ages. I started playing in a Bunco over ten years ago, when I was in my thirties.  I taught my daughters how to play when they were in elementary school.  My golden years mother still plays with a group of  friends at Silver Sneakers.  Although you can roll with two or more players, the game best lends itself to a group of twelve women.  If you are interested in playing Bunco, starting a group, or learning more about this fun dice game, read on.

I played Bunco as a substitute and permanent roller with the same wonderful group for over eight years.  The group eventually broke up, and after a couple years of missing Bunco, I decided to start a new group that would like to play once a month.  The following is an invitation I wrote when I resurrected the game of Bunco in my life: 

Dear Ladies,

I am inviting you to a game of Bunco at my house on INSERT DATE AND TIME.  Most Bunco nights will run for three hours, but the first one requires teaching the game of Bunco (easy but necessary to understand the rules and scoring).

This is a dice game of luck and prizes played by twelve people.  I’m starting a Bunco club that I hope can meet once a month.  You are the fun women I thought might like to join. You can decide after playing if you want to be on a permanent player roster, substitute player list, or an I-can’t-commit-but-keep-me-in-mind list.

Come enjoy an evening filled with drinks, food, conversation, and some light gambling. The object of the night is to have fun while breaking away from the weekly routine. There are over 700 hours in a month; Bingo players know this and love the thrill of getting out of the house and testing their luck among good company and refreshments. Bunco players can do the same in a more intimate and friendly gathering.


dice 3

Here is how it works:

  1. The hostess provides the space, decor, plates, napkins, and drinks for the night.  
  2. The players bring a dish, side, or dessert with a serving utensil  Take home or share what doesn’t get eaten.  My family loves the plates of goodies brought home from Bunco.  (No time to prep food?  Suggestion: Order a pizza or breadsticks or buy baked goods.)  
  3. The players bring $10 for the Bunco ante to go to the night’s monetary prizes.   
  4. The hostess is exempt from the $10 ante and instead provides a door prize (homemade or bought for 10.00 or under — don’t overdo it).  
  5. The hostess should keep the Bunco playing area free of children and husbands.  Furry friends are welcome (unless allergic Bunco players request otherwise).  
  6. If you say you are going to play, please show up.  If not, try to find someone to take your spot (There should be a sub list to pull from.)  
  7. Help welcome each other.  You will get to sit with every guest at some point during the game.   

dice 2

Bunco Eve Agenda:

6:00 – 6:30   Social ½ hour.

     — Eat, drink, meet, and greet old and new friends.  

     — Set out your dish (plug it in, uncover it, heat it, slice it…)

     — Put your 10.00 ante in the basket.

     — Sign up to be a hostess for your favored month if you can (i.e. I love making fall drinks and have good space for a summer Bunco near the pool, so I prefer to host during those seasons.)  

6:25 — Warning bell to get drinks, snacks, and seats at one of the tables.

6:30-7:00 Teach the game and rules.  Answer questions.  Play a round for no credit and fun:  teach scoring and clarify misunderstandings.

7:30-9:15 — Roll those dice, keep score, play the game, wear the crown, get cards punched… Have a Bunco Babe Partay! Take a food and refreshment break after a round of rolling: ones through sixes.

9:15-9:30 — Add scores and Buncos, give out prizes, remind each other of next hostess meeting place, share leftovers.  The next hostess takes Bunco game to her home.

Post Bunco – Friends laugh about the night on their way home and can’t wait to get together to do this again.

dice 5


Our Bunco Babes have a blast together.  Our group is fun, energetic, and loud.  We have had some creative theme nights such as: 80’s Night, Luau, and Wear-Your-Crazy-Leggings Bunco.  

Feel free to use or tweak my letter for your own Bunco party.  If you have any questions about Bunco ask me or check out the following links for more about the rules, scoring, and supplies needed to play.


Posted in Messy Rooms, Parenting, Teenagers

My Teenager is Sort of Raising an Ant Farm

ants - sarris

I just walked in on little sister Lena in Cara’s room looking for candy. She was rifling through Cara’s Easter baskets — FYI, Easter happened three Sundays ago, but Cara still has a stash left. Anyhow, I was also craving something sugary, specifically chocolate, so I came in to see what Cara had.  Lena found a package of M&M’s that we would share, but then I pulled out a box of bite size milk chocolate, peanut butter stuffed bunnies and chicks, Sarris Candy Brand.  I took out a bunny and ate it.  

“Mmm,” I euphorically sighed. “Lena, these are better than those M&M’s. Here.”  She took the box and dumped some out.  “Don’t take all of them,” I warned.  “Save some for Cara.”  

“Okay, I just took a bunny and chick.  I can’t believe she still has these. They’re the best!”  

“I know.  Let me have one more.”  I was weak.  

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Lena screamed.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I screamed because Lena screamed even though I didn’t know why she screamed.  

“There are ants! There are ants on these bunnies!” and she dropped the chocolates like she got caught stealing candy from an Easter basket.


“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!  I probably ate some!  I’m dying!  I cannot believe this!”  Lena bolted from the room (with the M&M’s).  “CARA!!!”  I screamed.


“What, Mom?”  she asked.


“I’m busy though. I’m playing Skip-Bo with my friend right now.”  Her boyfriend was over for a day date, and they were playing cards. Although I’m a fan of board games and cards, this could not wait.

“NOW!”  skip bo

She begrudgingly showed up to her room and said, “What is it?”

“Ants!  You have ants in your room,” I revealed.  

“Oh yeah.  I forgot about those,” she claimed.  

“You knew about these ants?” I was incredulous.  

“Yeah, I saw some, but didn’t know what to do about them.  They really weren’t hurting anything, so I forgot about them.  There were just a few.”  

“Well, now there is an army!”  I moved the trunk on her floor to prove their omnipresence. They partied on her name brand chocolate, danced together, dined some more, mated, and multiplied in her bedroom.  Sickening!!!  

“Wow!  How’d that happen?”  She seriously looked puzzled.  

“Go tell your friend that you have to exterminate your room a bit and you’ll be back when I give the ‘All Clear!'” 

“Okay, I’m sorry, but they’re really harmless, sorta like the mockingbird in that book you keep telling me I must read or you will go to my teachers and try to improve their circus.”

“Improve their curriculum,” I corrected. I was momentarily distracted that she even listened to what I told her about Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird masterpiece.  It didn’t excuse her and the unapproved picnic she was hosting in her room though.  She sleeps in a loft bed, so what does she care about her floor.  “I’m pretty sure I ate some of your ants. I guess you’ll have less to sweep and suck up with the vacuum.”

She laughed and swept. Why does this kid laugh at everything?!  If I were more positive I could’ve looked at this as a business venture, but I’m so damn itchy I can’t even.  Do you know that ants are sold online for ant farm kits?  I think we could’ve collected enough to crawl through at least ten kits. Maybe I’m old fashioned and don’t want chocolate covered ants and would prefer my kid to earn money by babysitting or baking or anything besides bug breeding.  

How do I stay sunny and sane (albeit part-time) while mothering teenagers and ants for another 70,000 years?  How are you surviving?  Are you eating ants too?

ants - sugar ants


If you want to buy or raise you own ants, check out these sites:



Posted in Anxiety, Family, Teaching, Teenagers

Getting Sent to the Office – A Mother and Teacher’s Tale

Disclaimer – I know my reaction to the following scene was an overreaction, and that is an understatement. Although I am a part-time sunshine who tries to keep a positive outlook, I am also a full-time nut job who can fall into a vat of emotional turmoil in a single breath. Come hold my hand and breathe with me…


The loudspeaker blared throughout my school interrupting first period.  “Mrs. Lucas, please come to the office. Paging Mrs. Lucas.” In case you didn’t know, I am Mrs. Lucas, high school English teacher.  image

I pushed my classroom call button connecting me to the office and said, “I’m in the middle of class.  Do you need me right now?”

The secretary replied, “Yes. Your daughter’s school is on the phone for you.  Mr. Jones can cover your class.”  

Whoa!  The secretary already called for classroom coverage. This didn’t sound good. And why did she page the whole building instead of just my classroom?  I felt like a kid getting sent to the principal’s office.  It is alarming to get jolted out of class for a surprise phone call, especially one about your own child. Since students can’t be left unattended, teachers realize whoever wants to speak to us has an immediate, important concern.  

Mr. Jones quickly arrived, and I raced down the steps as fast as I could in my new navy high heels. Clip-clop, clip-clop. Who called, I wondered? The high school or middle school?  Which daughter was this about: Cara or Elena?  Was she sick or hurt?  Was she in trouble?  Oh my my!  Did she cause trouble?  My concern from the loudspeaker, turned to anxiety as I hurried to the unknown caller.

I sped down the deserted halls to the office which seemed further away today, like it relocated to the moon. Finally, I pushed through the teachers-only door where a substitute-secretary warmly greeted me. It was as if she had been waiting for me the whole four minutes since she paged me, eons ago.  “Mrs. Lucas, I’m sorry I used the school intercom, but I was confused on how to page your room for you.  Here, you can sit at the desk to talk.” As a fill-in, maybe she was afraid to lose my call.  Or maybe she was just polite and letting me use her chair while she stretched her legs. Or maybe this was a huge emergency. 

I accepted the seat and pushed the red blinking answer button.  My caller spoke with a friendly, high-pitched voice and chirped, “Mrs. Lucas?”  

“Yes, this is she?” What were the chances the secretary got confused again and my caller was actually an extra-appreciative parent who wanted to tell me, voice-to-voice, how thrilled she was with the lessons I taught her teen?  

“This is the school nurse at Cara’s high school.”

Dang it! It wasn’t a thankful parent.  “Hi. What’s wrong?” I asked.  

“Cara had an accident in gym class and hurt her finger. She was doing box jumps and somehow slammed her hand into the box.”

“Oh, nuts and bolts!  Will she be able to throw the javelin and discus tomorrow for her first track meet?”

“I don’t think so. Her finger is a little crooked.”

“Crooked?” I asked looking at my own shaky, sweaty, but not crooked, fingers. “Can I talk to her?”  

“Yes, she is sitting right here with an ice pack.”

Cara chuckled,  “Hey, Mom!”

“Cara, why are you laughing?  Are you delirious?”

Still giggling. “I don’t know what that means, but it was so funny. Bella and I were doing box jumps, and then I accidentally hit my hand off the box and now it looks like a hook finger. It was so random.  We were cracking up!”

“Are you messing with me?  Are you seriously hurt?”  Cara is a prankster who celebrates every  April Fools’ Day and obnoxiously loves joking around about things mothers don’t find funny.  

Cara, quick to profess her discomfort, said “Uh, my fingers look like the letter ‘W’ and the bent one is throbbing.”

“Oh, I bet it hurts.  What’s your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

“I’m going with W!”


“Why are you being so silly, Cara?”

“Lighten up, Mom.  I’m the one with a bent finger. When you come get me can we stop for some chicken nugs? The nurse wants to talk to you again.  Bye!”

The nurse got back on the phone and convinced me that the finger was a serious injury and probably broken. “I recommend you take her to the emergency room and get it checked out. She can’t straighten it.”

“Oh boy!  I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I uttered. The anxiety that started with the intercom got worse, and that crooked finger was enough to push my panic button. My heart beat out of my chest and my stomach swarmed with butterflies.  We aren’t a bone breaking family.  We have our share of accidents but nothing that cracks our skeletons.  From my chest up, my flesh burned with nervous electricity, and my ears rang with piercing dog whistles that muffled the school bell.  My nerves zoomed from zero to ten to ‘W.’

“Okay. See you when you get here. Drive carefully,” the nurse advised.  

“Umm. Who am I coming to get again?  Cara or Elena?”  Add short-term memory loss to my list of worrywart ailments.  

To be continued with “Reconnecting with my Teenage Daughter in the Emergency Room.”


Posted in Education, Family, Social Media, Teenagers

13 Reasons Why: Adults Need to Talk About it.

13 reasons why

I plan to write an exploratory blog a post on why parents and teachers should watch 13 Reasons Why and talk about it with their teenage viewers. Most kids are binging it and having their own conversations. I think adult input is beneficial. If you watched this series, please share your input as an adult viewer and why you think it can help generate a conversation about the issues depicted: suicide, bullying, underage drinking, rape, violence, dishonesty, neglectful parenting, bystander (blind-eye) teaching, premarital sex, homosexuality, depression, social media, and more.

If you aren’t aware, this is a Netflix series based on the book of the same title. The Protagonist, Hannah makes cassette tapes to be distributed to those who she felt influenced her suicide. There is a lot of hurt, pain, blame, and shame revealed. I do NOT agree with how Hannah handled/mishandled her issues, but I think it merits a mature conversation that could help other distressed adolescents.

SPOILER ALERT — When you comment, act as if all readers of the post have viewed the show. If you have not, you may want to refrain from reading comments until you finished the series.  I recommend watching the 30-minute documentary following it on Netflix: 13 Reasons Why: Beyond the Reasons.

Comments — I hope to generate a good, adult conversation. Anything you add can find it’s way in my next blog, unless you state otherwise.

Posted in Dogs

Puppy Scams: ISO of Golden Retriever. Prefer a Female with Papers and a Heartbeat

I emailed that I wanted a female golden retriever.  You sent adorable pics, but your puppies’ coats were too ivory for my color palette.  

Cream dogs matter, but I need one to blend in with our flooring which is the color of fried chicken.  I hated to say no to your fluffy, mashed potato hued pups, but I want a golden retriever not a cream retriever.

After I told you why I wasn’t interested in your litter, you suddenly sent another picture of one with the preferred KFC coat. I wondered why you didn’t reveal her in the first place, but I dismissed the question as my heart swelled.  What a gorgeous photoshoot; she looked perfect, like a model!  I couldn’t believe you were willing to give her up for $400, a discount for a purebred.

It would cost just $100 more to ship her all the way to Pennsylvania from California. You told me I could get her tonight, on my daughter’s fifteenth birthday.  What a great surprise that would be.  My dog heart leapt and my imagination excitedly chased its tail.  I imagined Miss Puppy-Love popping out of a box with a pink bow and saying, “Happy birthday!” like Frosty the Snowman did with that hat.  

Back to reality.  You explained how our puppy would fly on a private jet to our nearest airport and then complete her journey to my house in a van.  She would show up potty trained, healthy, and grateful to be a part of my family.  I could buy love for half a grand. What a bargain!  

I started to think of names to reflect her birthplace: Cali, Hollywood, Peaches, or Sunny could work. Or we could be original and call her Fried Chicken or Phyllis. The possibilities for this little furball seemed endless.  

I admitted I recently contacted so many breeders that I couldn’t remember your website.  You reminded me you didn’t have one to offer per se, and shared your contact on a puppy finder site.  You revealed that you are a part-time breeder and wanted to keep all five puppies in your litter.  Since you got a new job, you realized you couldn’t.  That’s why your goldens were eleven weeks old instead of the ideal eight. I figured that contributed to the cheaper price.   

Geneous seller, I had some more questions and asked you to call me. I was tired of texting, although I thought it wise to have a record of our conversation in writing. I certainly didn’t want to get duped.  

After a five minute pause in our texts, my ringtone went off.   I  didn’t think it was you because the Caller ID indicated the call was from Darlington, Maryland. I was also surprised by your masculine, foreign voice.  Your email name is Jenny Morgan. You had to convince me you were the California seller who had the golden princess and private jet. Suddenly, a red flag went up.  Hmm, could this be a hoax?

As sure as dogs and my Canadian friend Doreen love bacon, I can assure you that this was indeed a hoax, a scam, a con.  

I caught on during our phone conversation and told you I thought you were lying and trying to pull the puppy fur over my eyes.  You reassured me that I could trust you, a god-fearing Christian.  Who says that?  I hung up and texted a request that you send the dog and THEN I would pay you when I got her, safe and sound.  You wouldn’t go for that, “Jenny,” because you have no puppies with fake potty training skills to put on a fake plane in a fake van to join my real family. My final text wished you a blessed day, you god-fearing, con artist!  You stink like dog crap!

I plan to report you to the authorities.  Give it up.  Quit messing with people’s puppy-heart strings. I’m sure you stole the above pics from the internet, so if any readers recognize these as yours, let me know and we’ll work on justice.   

If you experience such puppy scams, you can report the shenanigans to the following: