Mascot

The cougar didn't leave any paw prints, just an imprint on the mulch where it used to sit in front of Clarksville Elementary School. The Blue Ribbon school's beloved mascot -- a life-size sculpture commissioned by the fifth-grade Class of 2003 -- was stolen this month, leaving pupils and teachers baffled. "It's a sad story," Principal Brad Herling said yesterday. Who would take the approximately 275-pound concrete sculpture that was chained to a bench at the entrance of the school? "Maybe some people who were against mascots and who thought it would be cool to see a school worry," said Emily Rabinowitz, 8, a third-grader.

Remember those school assemblies with McGruff the trenchcoat-wearing, crime-fighting dog? Or Smokey Bear in his dungarees and forest ranger's hat? Yesterday, Howard County rolled out a mascot for an era of dirty bombs and Category 5 hurricanes: Ready Eddie, a sunglasses-wearing, emergency kit-toting flashlight who helped second-graders prepare for terrorist strikes and natural disasters. Hurricane Katrina reminded Americans of the importance of fending for themselves for days on end. But there is no national preparedness campaign for children - the Department of Homeland Security is set to release one within the next six months - so Howard created one as part of a weeklong series of readiness events.

Mr. Boh is back. What's that? You don't know Boh? You must not be from around here. Mr. Boh, no first name, is the grinning, winking mascot of National Bohemian beer, or Natty Boh. The beer - which was, as its advertising jingle once boasted, "brewed on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay" for more than a century - hasn't been made in Maryland since 1996. (It's now owned by Pabst Brewing Co. of San Antonio.) But Mr. Boh persists, adorning everything from T-shirts to luxury condos in Baltimore, where he was born just after the repeal of prohibition.

PHILADELPHIA - At first glance, it looked like a Sesame Street skit on steroids. In Center City yesterday, almost out of nowhere, a furry, 6-foot-5 dog in a black hockey sweater jumped out of a Ride the Ducks boat car, and started dancing to "Let's Get it Started" by the Black Eyed Peas. But he wasn't alone. Seconds later, a 7-foot moose in a white baseball uniform joined in, and before you could blink, a leprechaun, a giant owl and a lion wearing a basketball jersey had followed suit.

Wearing a flowing headdress of turkey feathers and authentic Sioux garb, Chief Illiniwek has been a halftime tradition at the home basketball court of the University of Illinois Fighting Illini, performing his ceremonial dance. But if the national runners-up return to the NCAA tournament in March, the chief won't be there. Nor will any other mascots with an American Indian theme. The NCAA banned yesterday the use of American Indian mascots and nicknames during its postseason tournaments, a rule that affects Illinois and 17 other schools.

In what could be the weirdest election since California's recall race, a hyperactive bunny, a steroid-pumped clean freak, a giggling blob of dough and 23 other product mascots are campaigning to become America's favorite advertising icon. The battle of the mascots began earlier this month in New York City. After posing for TV news crews and listening to former Mayor Ed Koch give pointers on how to kiss babies and shake hands, a herd of mascots - including Tony the Tiger, Charlie the Tuna, Kool-Aid Man and the Pillsbury Doughboy - invaded the streets to hustle votes.

The 10 young men and women who made it to the final round of tryouts last week should know by today whether they got one of the most coveted jobs at the University of Maryland. The problem is they won't be able to tell anyone if they did. The identity of Testudo, the mascot Diamondback terrapin, is such a secret that the student who made the decision, the student who will soon hand the fuzzy head and the baggy shell over to another student, doesn't want you to know who he is. He doesn't want you to know his name; he doesn't want you to know his age; he doesn't want you to know which state school he was at before he transferred to Maryland.

Being an Oriole fan used to be so wonderfully simple. Just like the Hartzell bird. The Orioles would play a game, usually win, and before you knew it, October had come and the O's were playing for the flag. And every morning on the front page of The Sun, that little bird would be there, his expression telling us immediately whether the good guys had won or lost. Artist Jim Hartzell's death last week at age 93 was sad in so many ways, not least in that it reminded us that those worry-free days of yore are gone.

ROCKFORD, Ala. - They buried him out back of the old county jail a few weeks ago. The grave is still fresh, with its swollen dirt mound, and amid the dead leaves someone has left two roses, a chew toy and a dog food scoop. "Fred the town dog," reads the makeshift wooden cross. "12-23-02." Fred died of a mysterious infection two days before Christmas. Ever since, people in rural Rockford, population 450, have been mourning the plump, sad-eyed Airedale mix who shuffled into town a mangy mutt and became a minor celebrity with his own Web site, T-shirt line, local newspaper column and cameos in the international news media.

All points bulletin: Navy's goat is alive and well, and, ahem, in Army custody. It had been a month since Bill, the Naval Academy's mascot, had vanished from a farm in Gambrills. But yesterday, after West Point announced amnesty for anyone who had anything to do with the goat's disappearance, at least one Army cadet turned himself in. "The goat has been found," Lt. Col. James Whaley, the West Point spokesman, announced yesterday afternoon. "We are in the process of notifying our Naval counterparts."