The Story of Peyote, The Greatest Frat Hound We Ever Had

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This is a tribute to house dogs and frat hounds everywhere, and to everyone who left us this graduation season.

I was in my first term on exec when they brought him back to the house. It was Bagel Day and I was stuffing my face with about 12 pounds of roast beef, ham and avocado between two Everything Bagels when I heard a bunch of guys gathering in the living room.

I walked over to see what was going on and there he was: the softest, fluffiest little ball of fur you’ve ever seen, an energetic white cream puff with a little bark and giant paws. He had a collar with a jingling dog tag on it, and was running around in circles on the hardwood floor. At one point, Barnes knelt down and the puppy jumped into his arms, licking his face.

I can still remember what I said the first time I saw him.

“Damn, this dog is going to get us so much ass.”

There was a naming contest over the house Facebook page. For awhile, it looked like some dick 5th year guys were going to win and the dog would be called “Michelob Ultra,” the drink of Philosophy majors and the homeless. Luckily, his legal owner stepped in and blessed him with the name “Peyote,” which fit the little guy perfectly. Peyote was like a mix between a husky and a malamute. He was totally white, except with two different colored eyes, making him look like he was always tripping nuts. Basically, he was born to party.

As expected, Peyote immediately turned out to be the best wingman any of us ever had. I would leash him up, walk him down the row, and I swear I’d get a dozen numbers and book two functions before Peyote even took a shit. The girls were all over him, and when they picked him up in their arms, he would shoot this cocky look back at me, like, “Yeah, bro. Check out these bitches. I’ve got more game than you and I’m a fucking dog.”

Peyote grew up fast and got big. The house was his kingdom and he trotted around like he owned the place. Funnily enough, Peyote figured out the power structure pretty quickly, almost as if he knew who the pledges were and that they weren’t important. The geediest pledge (this double-E major named Sean) probably got the worst of it. Every time he came over to the house, Peyote peed on his shoes.

Peyote was a bro from the beginning, and he used to lie down in the basement in the middle of our parties waiting for girls to stroke his stomach. Loud noises and debauchery never bothered him. We would put a tie around his neck every year for the composite picture, and he was just one of the guys.

Peyote was there for us through the good times and the bad. When we were under certain “allegations” and nationals was holding a match under our charter, Peyote sat at the foot of the exec table. Our president stroked him behind the ears, the static silence on the other end of the conference call buzzing softly while we waited for our answer.

His greatest moment was at the Beach Bash party of 2014. Some fucker snuck in and tried to make off with an armful of laptops. Our security guard spotted him, but the guy punched him square in the face with a bike lock, knocking out the guard’s teeth. Snarling, Peyote jumped into action and went straight for the balls, just as we trained him. The intruder fell to his knees, and it took three police officers to get our pup off.

Sadly, Peyote’s owner graduated recently, and with him, the furriest bro I ever had passed into the quiet life of post gradness. I’ll miss you, Peyote. Congratulations and enjoy your retirement. I hope you’ll be pissing on all the minivans and Volvos out there in suburbia.

Never forget where you came from. We’ll never forget you.

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