It turns out, if you're going to committ moose murder, you probably want to be driving a Chevy Cobalt. The car, despite hitting Mrs. Bullwinkle nearly square center, drove to the body shop 50 miles away from the scene of the crime.
Sadly, Mrs. Bullwinkle did not fare so well.
As usual, I haven't failed to find a silver lining. Hitting a moose is one way to sweet talk my way into this ride for a day or two!
Why do husbands gotta be so protective with their cars, anyways? It's not like I'm gonna drive it into a moose or anything. OK, even I must admit that I can see where he might have gotten that idea.
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