Puppy Sleeping Quotes

...But he was a good landlord. When my heater stopped working in mid-December, it took him only two weeks to get it fixed. Of course, it took me knocking on his door in need of a warm place to sleep to get it that way, but one night on his sofa, where I’d suddenly developed night terrors and epilepsy, and that puppy was running like a Mercedes the next day. It was awesome.

I suppose there's a time in practically every young boy's life when he's affected by that wonderful disease of puppy love. I don't mean the kind a boy has for the pretty little girl that lives down the road. I mean the real kind, the kind that has four small feet and a wiggly tail, and sharp little teeth that can gnaw on a boy's finger; the kind a boy can romp and play with, even eat and sleep with.

I know you did. It’s just that I wanted to see you for a few minutes and you were asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you. (Leta) So you slept at my feet like a puppy? No offense, but that’s creepy as hell. Next thing I know, you’ll be trying on my clothes and sleeping in my bed. (Aiden)

Julia closed her eyes and concentrated on the words to Lacrimosa, sung loudly and hauntingly by the multi-voice choir in Latin… Day of Weeping,on which will rise from ashes guilty man for judgment. So have mercy, O Lord, on this man. Compassionate Lord Jesus, grant them rest. Amen. What is wrong with Gabriel that he listens to this over and over again? And what does it say about me that I can’t help but feel close to him when I listen to it? All I’ve done is replace his photograph with his cd — I’m just not sleeping with it under my pillow. I am one sick puppy.

But what do I do with them?" Miss Smith said "I've never been around children." "Feed them, bathe them, make sure they get plenty of sleep," the doctor said. "They're no more diffi cult than puppies, really." He grinned

Dennis looked at the puppy in the window. We both did. It was the oddest thing. Normally, puppies in pet store windows sleep or pee or roll around on top of other dogs. This one ignored us its window-mates and was instead sitting with its nose pressed against the glass, looking at us with an extremely serious little expression on its face. An expression that seemed to me to be saying, "I am a sacred cow. Get out your wallet.

There was a letter, tucked among the pictures. It was addressed to Santa Claus and written in blue crayon. The jerky letters danced across the page. He wanted a bike, he said, or a puppy, and promised to be good. It was signed, and he had added his age. Four. I do not know why, but as I read it, my world seemed to collapse. Grief exploded in my chest like a grenade. I had been feeling calm - not happy, not even resigned, but calm - and that serenity vanished, as if vaporized. Beneath it, I was raw.

Oh- hey, there," he said. He was shorter than me, pudgy with salt-and-pepper hair that always seemed to be in need of a good conditioning. And he always wore sweatpants and T-shirts that had seen more abuse than narcotics. But he was a good landlord. When my heater stopped working in mid-December, it took him only two weeks to get it fixed. Of course, it took me knocking on his door in need of a warm place to sleep to get it that way, but one night on his sofa, where I'd suddenly developed night terrors and epilepsy, and that puppy was running like a Mercedes the next day. It was awesome.

Any second... now? No. I am a 'mourning person. Not because anybody close to me has recently passed away, but because I use that term to describe my demeanour at daybreak and as a way of separating myself from what are known as 'morning people' - those high-functioning, grinning morons, who skip out their beds and pounce at the dawn as eagerly and energetically as a young puppy greets a hanging shoelace. My mornings are (with the exception of Christmas Day) dark and sombre affairs, spent grieving the sleep of which I've been robbed; morning is when blades of daylight hack viciously at the dreams that have kept you company through the night.

When did the mammals get confusing? Who can’t look at a baby and a puppy and see the differences? You can’t leave babies at home alone with a chew toy when you go to the movies. Babies will not shimmy under the covers to sleep on your feet when you’re cold. Babies, for all their many unarguable charms, will not run with you in the park, or wait by the door for your return, and, as far as I can tell, they know absolutely nothing of unconditional love.

I want to know something real. Something that not everyone in the world knows about you." His puppy face deepens, his mouth sagging at the corners. "I can't get to sleep when I have socks on, but my feet are always cold so it's kind of a problem.

We wait to be rescued, but for whatever reason, no one comes. We figure that if no one protects us then we must not be worth protecting so we become prey and are easily picked off. Our wounded, kicked-puppy gazes attract sly predators and we sell ourselves for clearance sale prices, mistaking screwing for caring. We binge, purge, sleep around. We drink too much and get too high, anything to blot out the past.

It seems like maybe we tried to sleep normally a long time ago, when Bentley was a puppy. But then he gradually moved from his little bed to the floor next to our bed. And then from the floor to the foot of the bed. And then from the foot to next to me. And now from next to me to between us, under the covers, with his head on a pillow next to ours.

I didn't sleep all night, thinking. I thought about you, about those puppy eyes you give me, when you fake your sadness to make me smile-- and that upper lip of yours that brings life to all of my senses. I thought about your laughter when you get tickled, and that soft mellow place near your arm pit that I wish could be knit into a pillow for me to hug all night long. I thought about your stomach, your soft and sensitive stomach, scared like a baby kitten under the pouring rain. And I remembered the feeling of protection that comes washing over me when I get a glimpse of it, the feeling of covering it with the layers of my very own skin. I remembered your head when it rests on my heart, a rock sheltering itself on the verdure of infinity. I remembered your silky black hair, and how I never imagined that hair curls so thin could twirl, in the way they do, the rigid core of my existence.

Are you sometimes scared, or happy, just like that, out of the blue, apropos of nothing? You hurry out on some stupid errand, and suddenly you feel a thrill of improbablem intense, boundless joy? Or it happens that everything seems to be in its rightful placem your beloved is sleeping sweetly next to you, you're young and full of as much energy as a puppy - and suddenly you feel you're suspended in emptiness, and a leaden sorrow clamps down on your heart, as though you were dead. Not only that, but as though you had never been alive. And sometimes you look at yourself in the mirror, and you can't remember who that chap is, or why he's there at all. Then your own reflection turns around and walks away, and you watch silently as it retreats. [..] It happens because something ineffable is reaching for us - we never know where and when it will show up and start tugging on our sleave.

Where’s he going to sleep?” my mother asked. “He’s just been using the car seat.” She sighed loudly. “Oh, Adrian. This is just like the time you brought home a neighbor’s puppy and seemed surprised when you found out you’d have to feed it every day.“ “Hey,” I retorted. “We’ve fed this little guy plenty of times.

Let us live, therefore, cheerfully, although there be no lasting joy in mortal things, whose substance is evanescent, inane, and vacuous. But if there is any good thing by which you would adorn this stage of life, we have not of such been cheated - rest, serenity, modesty, self-restraint, orderliness, change, fun, entertainment, society, temperance, sleep, food, drink, riding, sailing, walking, keeping abreast of events, meditation, contemplation, education, piety, marriage, feasting, the satisfaction of recalling an orderly disposition of the past, cleanliness, water, fire, listening to music, looking at all about one, talks, stories, history, liberty, continence, little birds, puppies, cats, consolation of death, and the common flux of time, fate and fortune, over the afflicted and the favoured alike. There is a good hope for things beyond all hope; good in the exercise of some art in which one is skilled; good in meditating upon the manifold transmutation of all nature and upon the magnitude of Earth.

I looked at mother with adoration in my own eyes, and when she had taken the kerosene lamp and had gone away, and when we boys were all again curled quietly like sleeping puppies in the bed, I cried a little, as I am sure father must have cried sometimes when there was no one about. Perhaps his getting drunk, as he did on all possible occasions, was a way of crying too.

Sample House-training Schedule for a Young Puppy 6:30 a.m. Rise. Walk pup briefly. 7:00 a.m. Feed pup and offer a drink of water. Walk puppy. Return home and play briefly with pup. Pup stays in crate. Midmorning Walk pup. After walk, pup stays with owner fifteen minutes. Pup returns to crate. Noon–1:00 p.m Feed pup second meal and offer water. Walk puppy. Return home and play with pup. Pup returns to crate. Midafternoon Offer pup water. Walk puppy. Pup returns to crate. 5:00 p.m. Feed pup third meal and offer water. Walk puppy. Allow pup to play in kitchen while dinner is being prepared. 7:00 p.m. Walk pup briefly. Return home and play with puppy. Pup returns to create Before bed Walk pup. Puppy sleeps in crate or on a tether (preferably with metal chain) in your bedroom.

It seemed as if nothing were to break that tie — as if the years were merely to compact and cement it; and as if those years were to be all the years of their natural lives. Eighteen-forty-two turned into eighteen-forty-three; eighteen-forty-three into eighteen- forty-four; eighteen-forty-four into eighteen-forty-five. Flush was no longer a puppy; he was a dog of four or five; he was a dog in the full prime of life — and still Miss Barrett lay on her sofa in Wimpole Street and still Flush lay on the sofa at her feet. Miss Barrett’s life was the life of “a bird in its cage.” She sometimes kept the house for weeks at a time, and when she left it, it was only for an hour or two, to drive to a shop in a carriage, or to be wheeled to Regent’s Park in a bath-chair. The Barretts never left London. Mr. Barrett, the seven brothers, the two sisters, the butler, Wilson and the maids, Catiline, Folly, Miss Barrett and Flush all went on living at 50 Wimpole Street, eating in the dining-room, sleeping in the bedrooms, smoking in the study, cooking in the kitchen, carrying hot-water cans and emptying the slops from January to December. The chair-covers became slightly soiled; the carpets slightly worn; coal dust, mud, soot, fog, vapours of cigar smoke and wine and meat accumulated in crevices, in cracks, in fabrics, on the tops of picture-frames, in the scrolls of carvings. And the ivy that hung over Miss Barrett’s bedroom window flourished; its green curtain became thicker and thicker, and in summer the nasturtiums and the scarlet runners rioted together in the window-box. But one night early in January 1845 the postman knocked. Letters fell into the box as usual. Wilson went downstairs to fetch the letters as usual. Everything was as usual — every night the postman knocked, every night Wilson fetched the letters, every night there was a letter for Miss Barrett. But tonight the letter was not the same letter; it was a different letter. Flush saw that, even before the envelope was broken. He knew it from the way that Miss Barrett took it; turned it; looked at the vigorous, jagged writing of her name.

He should rest his mind and body as much as possible to ensure a complete recovery." She wrinkled her nose playfully at Bazzle, who was curled up on the other side of the bed with a ball of red fluff cuddled against his chest. "That means we mustn't let the puppy disturb Mr. Severin's sleep." The puppy had been a gift from Winterborne and Helen, delivered just that morning. They had received word of a new litter from a friend who bred toy poodle dogs, and at their request had sent the pick of the litter when he was ready to be weaned. Bazzle was enchanted with the little creature, whose presence had already helped him to stop fretting over the fright he'd received. "There's a dust wad on the bed," had been Tom's comment upon first seeing the puppy. "It has legs." Now the toy poodle stretched and yawned, and toddled up along Tom's side, staring at him with bright amber eyes.

The process by which a boring cloud of plain-vanilla hydrogen gas becomes a blinding ball of white fire is epic in purpose and scale. The result, a stable star such as the Sun with a fourteen-billion-year life span, destined to create puppies and pomegranates, certainly deserves its own holiday. Yet no nation celebrates the Sun’s birth. We do, theoretically, honor its existence each Sunday. In practice, most use that time to sleep as late as possible and thus minimize any awareness of it.

Rayna does not get sick on planes. Also, Rayna does not stop talking on planes. By the time we land at Okaloosa Regional Airport, I’m wondering if I’ve spoken as many words in my entire life as she did on the plane. With no layovers, it was the longest forty-five minutes of my whole freaking existence. I can tell Rachel’s nerves are also fringed. She orders an SUV limo-Rachel never does anything small-to pick us up and insists that Rayna try the complimentary champagne. I’m fairly certain it’s the first alcoholic beverage Rayna’s ever had, and by the time we reach the hotel on the beach, I’m all the way certain. As Rayna snores in the seat across from me, Rachel checks us into the hotel and has our bags taken to our room. “Do you want to head over to the Gulfarium now?” she asks. “Or, uh, rest up a bit and wait for Rayna to wake up?” This is an important decision. Personally, I’m not tired at all and would love to see a liquored-up Rayna negotiate the stairs at the Gulfarium. But I’d feel a certain guilt if she hit her hard head on a wooden rail or something and then we’d have to pay the Gulfarium for the damages her thick skull would surely cause. Plus, I’d have to suffer a reproving look from Dr. Milligan, which might actually hurt my feelings because he reminds me a bit of my dad. So I decide to do the right thing. “Let’s rest for a while and let her snap out of it. I’ll call Dr. Milligan and let him know we’ve checked in.” Two hours later, Sleeping Beast wakes up and we head to see Dr. Milligan. Rayna is particularly grouchy when hungover-can you even get hungover from drinking champagne?-so she’s not terribly inclined to be nice to the security guard who lets us in. She mutters something under her breath-thank God she doesn’t have a real voice-and pushes past him like the spoiled Royalty she is. I’m just about aggravated beyond redemption-until we see Dr. Milligan in a new exhibit of stingrays. He coos and murmurs as if they’re a litter of puppies in the tank begging to play with him. When he notices our arrival he smiles, and it feels like a coconut slushy on a sweltering day and it almost makes up for the crap I’ve been put through these past few days.

There are these Precious Moments figurines, they’re like porcelain, little kids with giant eyes handing each other a heart that says LOVE on it, or rolling around with a puppy? Maria stumbles into a whole aisle of them. Tears start welling up in her eyes, again, which is totally not tough and totally not punk but which also you totally can’t lie about. Like, they’re depictions of this idealized childhood innocence, right? This idea that little kids have the potential for sadness in their giant eyes, but really they just know these pure emotions: love, happiness, whatever. It’s totally hokey and stupid and obviously a construction. Real little kids are as dirty, impure, and complicated as the adults they’re going to grow up and be. But this sort of thing gets her all melodramatic and choked up specifically because of how fucked up she was convinced she was when she was little. She didn’t know she was trans, she couldn’t put into words that she was a little girl, but she did know that something was horribly wrong and she blamed herself for it. Other kids could stomp around and punch eachother and sleep at night, but she was this self-conscious mess who liked books a lot because sometimes people in books seemed as bewildered by the world and themselves as she was. She was never a little kid who could get a puppy and be happy about it. If you’d given her a puppy, she would immediately have started worrying about what if she trained it wrong, what if it ran away. She would already be sad that it would die.

Therefore they spent such time as I was housekeeping, eating or sleeping, alone in the greenhouse, and I had to manage as best I could when, after these intervals, I went back to them, not to be knocked over by their joyful welcome. Gradually, however, things settled down. The secret of peace with puppies, I discovered—up to then I had had only ready-made dogs (except Bijou, who doesn’t count), and had everything to learn,—is to give them a great deal of exercise, and a great deal of food. They should be gorged; regularly. Then they will sleep for hours—quite long enough, I found, in Ingo and Ivo’s case, for me to deal justly with Mr. Anstruther, against whom I had been feeling rather a grudge. This, then, was the line I took; and presently a new rug was able safely to be put in the greenhouse, and while they lay on it, stupefied by well-being, lost to the world, a relaxed heap of paws and ears and tails, with two tightly-filled bellies to point the moral, I got on, once again, with Fräulein Schmidt.

She faced her pretend Arin. His scar was healed. His gray eyes were startlingly clear. “You’re not real,” she reminded him. “I feel real.” He brushed one finger across her lower lip. It suddenly seemed that there were no clouds in the sky, and that she sat in full sunshine. “You feel real,” he said. The puppy yawned, her jaws closing with a snap. The sound brought Kestrel to herself. She felt a little embarrassed. Her pulse was high. But she couldn’t stop pretending. Kestrel reached beneath her skirts to pull down a knee-high stocking. Arin made a sound. “I want to feel the grass beneath my feet,” Kestrel told him. “Someone’s going to see you.” “I don’t care.” “But that someone is me, and you should have a care, Kestrel, for my poor heart.” He reached under the hem of her dress to catch her hand in the act of pulling down the second stocking. “You’re treating me quite badly,” he said, and slid the stocking free, his palm skimming along the path of her calf. He looked at her. His hand wrapped around her bare ankle. Kestrel became shy…though she had known full well what she was doing. Arin grinned. With his free hand, he plucked a blade of grass. He tickled it against the sole of her foot. She laughed, jerking away. He let her go. He settled down beside her, lying on his stomach on the grass, propped up by his elbow. Kestrel lay on her back. She heard birdsong: high and long, with a trill at the end. She gazed up at the sky. It was blue enough for summer. “Perfect,” she said. “Almost.” She turned to look at him, and he was already looking at her. “I’m going to miss you when I wake up,” she whispered, because she realized that she must have fallen asleep under the sun. Arin was too real for her imagination. He was a dream. “Don’t wake up,” he said. The air smelled like new leaves. “You said you trusted me.” “I did.” He added, “I do.” “You are a dream.” He smiled. “I lied to you,” Kestrel said. “I kept secrets. I thought it was for the best. But it was because I didn’t trust you.” Arin shifted onto his side. He caressed her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. That trailing sensation felt like the last note of the bird’s song. “No,” he agreed, his voice gentle. “You didn’t.” Kestrel woke. The puppy was draped across her feet, sleeping. Her stockings lay in a small heap beside her. The sun had climbed in the sky. Her cheek was flushed, the skin tight: a little sunburned. The puppy twitched, still lost in sleep. Kestrel envied her. She rested her head again on the grass. She closed her eyes, and tried to find her way back into her dream.

Mamma," she said, "did God really make the baby?" "Yes, dear." "Then He hasn't treated us fairly, and I should like to know why. The puppies could walk when He finished them; the calves can, too. The pigs can, and the colt, and even the chickens. What is the use of giving us a half-finished baby? He has no hair, and no teeth; he can't walk or talk, nor do anything else but squall and sleep." After many days she got the question settled. She began right where she left off. "I know, Mamma, why God gave us such a half-finished baby; so he could learn our ways, and no one else's, since he must live with us, and so we could learn to love him. Every time I stand beside his buggy he laughs and then I love him, but I don't love Stella nor Marvin because they laugh. So that is why." Perhaps that is the reason.

Keep the dog enclosed. All doors to the outside must stay closed when the dog is not in her crate. Never let the dog out of the house unsupervised. If baby gates and x-pens are up to keep the dog out of (or inside) certain areas of the home, those barriers must not be moved without my help. Stay seated. You must sit on the floor while handling the puppy. No physical punishment. Never hit the dog when she makes a mistake. You could hurt her and she could hurt you back. Let the dog sleep. When the dog is sleeping, don’t touch her. You could scare her and she might bite you. If you must wake the dog, ask me to do it. No feeding. You’re not allowed to feed the dog or touch the dog while she is eating unless

She asked if she could sleep in my bed that night and I said yes and we went upstairs and lay close together in the narrow bed and I wondered if maybe she missed her mother, and then around halfway through the night Edmond came in saying he was lonely and he lay down too only facing in the other direction since it was the only way he could fit, and then around sunrise Isaac wandered in too wondering where everyone had gone and when he saw us he just smiled a little and went down to the kitchen and brought up the big brown teapot and some mugs on a tray and we all piled together on the bed on top of each other like puppies and drank our tea while the sun streamed in thick and yellow through the window. And

Dumpling is the kind of dog that makes people on the street do double- and triple-takes and ask in astonished voices, "What kind of dog IS that?!" His head is way too small for his thick, solid body, and his legs are too spindly. His eyes point away from each other like a chameleon. One side of his mouth curls up a little, half-Elvis, half palsy-victim, and his tongue has a tendency to stick out just a smidgen on that side. He was found as a puppy running down the median of a local highway, and I adopted him from PAWS five years ago, after he had been there for nearly a year. He is, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to me. My girlfriend Bennie says it looks like he was assembled by a disgruntled committee. Barry calls him a random collection of dog bits. My mom, in a classic ESL moment, asked upon meeting him, "He has the Jack Daniels in him, leetle bit, no?' I was going to correct her and say Jack Russell, but when you look at him, he does look a little bit like he has the Jack Daniels in him. My oldest nephew, Alex, who watches too much Family Guy and idolizes Stewie, took one look, and then turned to me in all seriousness and said in that weird almost-British accent, "Aunt Alana, precisely what brand of dog is that?" I replied, equally seriously, that he was a purebred Westphalian Stoat Hound. When the kid learns how to Google, I'm going to lose major cool aunt points. Dumpling tilts his head back and licks the underside of my chin, wallowing in love. "Dog, you are going to be the death of me. You have got to let me sleep sometime." These words are barely out of my mouth, when he leaps up and starts barking, in a powerful growly baritone that belies his small stature.

Can the puppy sleep as well outside of the crate? If they can, you may

By this stage, your puppy has bladder control. Urge them to stay in their crate 15 to 30 minutes longer each morning by waking them up with a bone or food-stuffed hollow toy, until they’re content sleeping in until your ideal target time.

first, everything was dark. I felt warmth all around me, and I could smell other puppies cuddled up close. I could smell my mother, too. Her scent was safety, and comfort, and milk. When I was hungry, I would squirm toward that smell, and find milk to drink. When I was cold, I would press close to her fur, or burrow under a brother or a sister. And then I’d sleep until I was hungry again. When I opened my eyes after a few days, things began to get more interesting.

He opened the lock while the dogs began to growl at Assad. ‘They’re not used to dark skin.’ ‘No problem. I’ve got them under control,’ answered Assad, at which the dominant dog lunged towards him ready to bite. Carl jumped to the side but Assad stood his ground and that very second, as the gardener tried to stop the beast, he let out an infernal yell that made both dogs sink to their knees like puppies and piss themselves like they’d never pissed before. ‘That’s it,’ said Assad, slapping himself on the thigh and calling the dogs to heel. When they crept over to him and let him pet them, both the gardener and Carl stood speechless, watching. ‘Where did I get to?’ said Assad, the dogs on either side of him, as if they’d found a new master. ‘Yes, we need a little assistance. Firstly, we need to buy something or other that can help me sleep.’ Carl couldn’t believe his own ears. If Assad slept any deeper than he had in the hotel in Rønne, he’d damn well never wake up again. ‘And then we need something that can revitalize my friend here. Afterwards, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s OK with you.’ The ID card never materialized from Carl’s pocket.

For years now, she had woken up like a runner leaping from the starting blocks - her body yanked into consciousness by a baby's wail, the sound of the puppy vomiting, the growl of the trash truck two doors away, their own trash cans still waiting to be put out on the curb. Sleep tossed over her shoulder as she sprinted down the hall, leaving dreams in a scattered trail behind her. (p125)

The best solution is to put a dog bed in your living space, a comfy spot to rest that’s all her own. During the initial house-training phase, though, she should spend the night in a crate in your bedroom. There’s a mind-boggling selection of doggy beds on the market, so take your time choosing the one that’s right for you and your pooch. As in the case of real estate, location counts most when it comes to a dog bed. If your pup’s sleeping accommodation is on carpet or hardwood, you won’t need a lot of padding in the bed, but if it’s on concrete, linoleum or tile, you’ll need an adequate barrier against cold and moisture between the floor and the bottom of the bed. If your pooch sleeps in the basement or some other area where the temperature will be dipping below 60°F (about 16°C), consider a slightly elevated or well-insulated bed. Look for low-maintenance beds that are large enough to allow for a six-inch (fifteen-centimetre) buffer around your pup. And feel free to buy a bed large enough for your pup once he’s full grown. Look for materials that can be washed regularly.

•Leave the puppy alone when they are eating. •Don’t take away a toy the puppy is playing with. •Let sleeping puppies lie, including staying away from their crate when they’re inside napping. •Don’t try to ride or pick up the puppy. •Don’t put your face right up to the puppy’s face; this isn’t how puppies greet each other. •Gentle petting is wonderful, but no hugs; puppies may look like they want to be hugged, but they don’t. •Do not pull the puppy’s tail, stick your fingers in their mouth or ears, or touch their paws; all of these things are uncomfortable or unnerving for a puppy.

Most people master the fundamentals of swaddling fairly quickly. However, your Baby Houdini might break free while swaddled. Don’t worry—this happens to the best of us. Babies are small and squirmy, you’re tired, it’s dark out. It’s like wrapping a Christmas present, only the present is an angry puppy and you’re all out of tape.

Pavel Menansi is dead,” Myron said. “Someone murdered him last night.” “The guy who molested Valerie Simpson?” “Yep.” “Gee, I’m so brokenhearted. I hope I don’t lose too much sleep.” Esperanza finally flicked a glance away from the screen. “Did you know he was on that party list you gave me?” “Yeah. You find any other interesting names?” She almost smiled. “One.” “Who?” “Think puppy dog,” Esperanza said. Myron shook his head. “Think Nike,” she continued. “Think Duane’s contact with Nike.” Myron froze. “Ned Tunwell?” “Correct answer.” Everyone in Myron’s life was a game show host. “Listed as E. Tunwell on the list. His real name is Edward. So I did a little digging. Guess who first signed Valerie Simpson to a Nike deal.” “Ned Tunwell.

Shannon fought her laughter down and tiptoed back to the bedroom to retrieve her cell phone. Big, badass, John Palmer was sleeping with a lonely puppy. Padding back out to the living room she snapped a quick picture. “If that goes anywhere other than your phone, there will be hell to pay,” he growled, sending her into fits of giggles. The puppy’s eyes snapped open and she lifted her head wobbily. When she saw Shannon standing a few feet away, she tumbled to the floor and jogged over to pee at her feet. John laughed out loud as he sat up on the couch. “That’s what you get for trying to be sneaky. You can get this one.” Shannon

He has tattoos. All over. Each one symbolizing his time with you. Did you know that?" I shake my head and look everywhere, anywhere but at Micki. I don't want to think about Levi's tattoos, what they represent, or where they might be located. I'd rather think about the wattage of the overhead fluorescent lights or the speed of the processors powering the CPUs. "You do know you used to sleep together, though, right? That you lived together at AIDA? That fine specimen of a man was your personal boy toy. You had him wrapped around your finger and dipped in chocolate. He did anything you asked. And I mean anything." "Um," I say, squirming in my chair. " Too much info." I'm so not in the mood to hear about my past self's sex life. Plus, it feels disrespectful to Levi. Not to mention that it makes me feel really freaking weird. And really freaking nauseous. "Aw, did I burn your New Life virgin ears?" Micki pouts, a sarcastic puppy frown.

What’s she doing here?” Pete whispers vehemently. “Eating fucking pancakes!” I hiss back. “Now mind your own business!” “You are my business, dumbass.” He shakes his head. “Seriously, did you bang her?” “Don’t fucking talk about her like she’s…less than what she is.” I shove his shoulder. He whistles. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” “Fuck you. It’s been like that for a long time. I really like her.” He opens my fridge and comes back with a container of yogurt. “I already knew you didn’t bang her.” “You did not.” “Did so.” “Shut up.” “Want to know how I knew?” He sings it out like a playful song. “No.” “Because her damp panties are over the shower bar in the guest bathroom instead of in your bathroom. If you’d slept with her, she’d be washing her unmentionables in your sink.” “If they’re unmentionables, then why the fuck are you talking about them?” “What did you two do last night?” “We watched the cook-off show.” “Oh, hell no.” He moans. “You got better game than that! Did I teach you nothing?” He throws his hands up. “Yes, you taught me nothing.” I grin at him. “What happened after the cook-off show?” He watches my face intently. “Nothing. We went to sleep.” “You didn’t fuck her.” “I already told you I didn’t, and I told you to stop talking about her like that. Now get the fuck out.” “Did she sleep in your bed?” I draw in a deep breath through my nose. “She did. But you didn’t fuck her.” He pats my shoulder like I’m a good puppy. “Good boy.” “This one matters,” I say quietly. “I get it.” He’s serious all of a sudden. Pete may act like a dick, but he’s my brother. He’s my twin. He’s my other half. “This one is special.” “I think she likes me.” “Don’t fuck it up by being yourself or anything.” He grins and grabs me in a headlock. I can’t fight with him while I’m on crutches. He turns me loose and I hop to get my balance.

Vanessa had no trouble imagining how the general could look scary as hell to his troops. But this morning, at the kitchen table with just his daughter and grandson, he was soft as a puppy. She reached across the table and patted his hand. He played with the baby’s foot with his other. “You’re not losing me, Daddy. Not ever.” “It’s okay, Vanni. You’re a young woman in your prime. Paul’s a fine young man, despite the fact that he’s fathering the nation…” “Daddy…” “Nah, he’s a good man. His incident aside.” She leaned toward him. “You’re not losing me,” she said again. “But I packed a bag this morning. I’m going home with him, Dad. Just for a few days. We’ll be back before the weekend.” “That doesn’t surprise me a bit. I’m surprised you didn’t take off in the dark of night.” Then she asked softly, “Did I disturb your sleep last night?” He shook his head. “I suppose we’re an odd family,” he said. “Not quite the stiff and upright family I had always thought we were, but the facts of our lives have changed all that. Relaxed our expectations… At least mine.” He looked down. “I heard you, yes. It wasn’t too disturbing. In fact, those are happy sounds.” He lifted his eyes. “There were other nights I heard you—and your brother. Nights of crying over loved ones lost. Your mother. Your husband. And I don’t doubt there were nights young Tom, at only fourteen, wondered what to do about a tough old three-star crying in his bed over his wife’s death.” “Oh, Daddy…” “Vanni—life is rough. It can’t help but be, especially for military families like ours. But we have to soldier on, be strong, do the best we can. If you tell me you’re happy with Paul…” “Oh, Dad, I love him so much. I loved him before I fell in love with him, if that makes sense. He loves me. And—he loves you.” “Any man who would do all he did after his best friend’s death—this is a man who deserves my respect.” “Thank

There’s something else, too, Miss Emmie.” Stevens had gone bashful now, and Emmie was intrigued. “Here.” Stevens beckoned her to follow him out the back of the stables, to where a separate entrance led to a roomy foaling stall. “He said you needed summat other’n t’mule, and you’re to limber her up, as Miss Winnie will be getting a pony soon.” A sturdy dapple-gray mare stood regarding Emmie from over a pile of hay. She turned a soft eye on Emmie and came over to the half door to greet her visitors. “Oh, Stevens.” Emmie’s eyes teared up again. “She is so pretty… so pretty.” “He left ye a message.” Stevens disappeared back into the barn and came out with a sealed envelope. “I can tack her up if ye like.” Emmie tore open the envelope with shaking fingers. How dare he be so thoughtful and generous and kind? Oh, how dare he… She couldn’t keep the horse, of course; it would not be in the least proper, but dear Lord, the animal was lovely… My dear Miss Farnum, Her name is Petunia, and she is yours. I have taken myself to points distant, so by the time I return, you will have fallen in love with her, and I will be spared your arguments and remonstrations. She is as trustworthy and reliable a lady as I have met outside your kitchen, and at five years of age, has plenty of service yet to give. Bothwell has been alerted you will be joining him on his rides, should it please you to do so. And if you are still determined not to keep the horse, dear lady, then consider her my attempt at consolation to you for inflicting Scout on the household in my absence. St. Just He’d drawn a sketch in the corner of Scout, huge paws splayed, tongue hanging, his expression bewildered, and broken crockery scattered in every direction. The little cartoon made Emmie smile through her tears even as Winnie tugged Scout out behind the stables to track Emmie down. “Are you crying, Miss Emmie?” Winnie picked up Emmie’s hand. “You mustn’t be sad, as we have Scout now to protect us and keep us company.” “It isn’t Scout, Winnie.” Emmie waved a hand toward the stall where Petunia was still hanging her head over the door, placidly watching the passing scene. “Oh.” Winnie’s eyes went round. “There’s a new horse, Scout.” She picked up her puppy and brought him over to the horse. The mare sniffed at the dog delicately, then at the child, then picked up another mouthful of hay. “Her name’s Petunia,” Emmie said, finding her handkerchief. “The earl brought her from York so I can ride out with the vicar.” “She’s very pretty,” Winnie said, stroking the velvety gray nose. “And not too big.” The mare was fairly good size, at least sixteen and a half hands, and much too big for Winnie. “Maybe once I get used to her, I can take you up with me, Winnie. Would you like that?” “Would I?” Winnie squealed, setting the dog down. “Did you hear that, Scout? Miss Emmie says we can go for a ride. Oh… We must write to the earl and thank him, Miss Emmie, and I must tell Rose I have a puppy, too. I can knight Scout, can’t I?” “Of course you may,” Emmie said, reaching for Winnie’s hand. “Though you must know knights would never deign to be seen in the castle kitchens, except perhaps in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to go charging about the kingdom.” “Did knights sleep in beds?” “Scout can stay with Stevens above the carriage house when you have repaired to your princess tower for your beauty sleep.” “I’ll ask Scout.” It

What’s another word for comfort?” ask, “What are images of comfort?” or, “When I think of comfort, what memories come up?” Or try a Google image search for “comfort”. You’ll scroll through images of hammocks, beanbag chairs, thick woolly socks, and wood-burning fireplaces. You’ll see a cup of hot chocolate, mom’s baked mac n’ cheese, a hug from a grandma, or a cuddle with a sleeping puppy. All of these images should inspire something more visceral than a word on thesaurus.com

Hmm.” He yawned and dropped his head onto my shoulder. “So will you help me?” “Of course I will. When do you want to go?” “As soon as possible.” His skin was warm and he had that puppy-dog sleeping boy-smell. “You smell good,” he said, echoing my thoughts. “No, I don’t. I ran six miles this morning and haven’t showered yet.” “You still smell good.

In the middle of the night: Remember: initially your puppy’s crate is ideally going to be located in your bedroom. So, you’ll hear them when they whine. And you will hear whining, especially during the first few nights when they are lonely and missing their littermates. But they’ll also whine because they have to go to the bathroom and are stressed out about peeing inside the crate where they sleep. Admittedly, at first it’s very difficult to know the difference between lonely whining and potty whining. When you hear whining, wait. If the crate is next to your bed, you can put your hand down next to the crate, so your puppy knows they are not alone. But don’t talk to them. If they calm down, stop whining, and go back to bed, they were just lonely. But if they don’t calm down and continue to whine, or the whining increases, err on the side of caution. Assume they have to pee and take them out of the crate to their designated area. Keep it businesslike—no playful interactions. It should just take a couple of minutes, then they go back in their crate and you go back to bed. If it’s taking more than a couple of minutes, your puppy just wanted your attention, so head back inside and put your puppy in their crate and you in your bed.

I didn't sleep for three days. On day four, my shears came alive and told me I could make puppies out of mystical cake mix.

She imagined a nice house, large enough to hold them, the girls, and the babies she hoped to have. She imagined backyard bonfires, late night movies, sleeping next to Brantley every night. She imagined what it would be like to have Brantley's baby growing in her womb. She imagined Avery and Emily picking out a puppy and fighting over who would get to sleep with the puppy at night. 'Get it together!' she scolded herself. Normally she had no trouble meeting deadlines, and often was early. She prided herself on exceeding her clients' expectations.

She curls tightly to me kissing me on the lips and cheeks, her body skin to skin to mine, she’s kind of- like- a hyper puppy… you know- wet nose, big sad eyes, giving you lots of unwanted wet kisses, and can’t sit in one place for too long. Now she is pulling on my necklace, the one I am always wearing has my dad’s wedding ring hanging from it-a thin silver chain and the gold band hanging from it, a gift dad gives me- saying- ‘He loves me more than mom, that I am the love of his life.’ Yet sis tugs gently to get my full attention. I ask here- ‘Why are you not wearing your undies?’ And she baby- talks without missing a beat- ‘Be- because you don’t at night so-o why should I’s.’ I knew not too long from now she would be running around the house stark-naked like always, saying it’s because I sleep this way. I am sure mom will say I am a bad role model, but yet there are far worse things she has done, things that mom and dad never need to know about, things that I can even remember right now. If she wants to be in my bad nude, will- I guess that’s okay…? She is just trying to be like me, and that’s sweet. I have saved her butt many times when she has done bad things. I have been like a mom to her, ever since she was born if I wanted to be or not. And she has been there for me when I was a nobody. Yeah, she’s the best pain in the butt a girl can have. ‘Mommy says you have to get up soon, her hand covering her eyes as she walks my room and sees both of us.’ Her breath smells like toothpaste, as she kisses us good morning, and she stumbles over all the stuff lying on the floor and it’s not until I push sis off me that I realize how badly I’m shaking. Mom, she has one of those green face masks sped up, which is some scary-looking crap, pulls she has curlers in her hair. Yet that’s not what’s got me traumatized. ‘It’s Friday,’ I say confused. I thought we were going to the rusty anchor today? Mom said- ‘I thought you didn’t like doing that Karly that you’re too grown up to be with your mommy and Daddy and sissy… always- yes we are all going this upcoming weekend, glad to see you want to go.’ I said- ‘Oh- okay?’ Mom- ‘Karly are you feeling, okay? Are you not your usual descent and moody self? Me- ‘Yah I am a fine mom.’ I have no idea how I got home last night, or what I did or didn’t do. It’s like it never happened, yet I think it did… didn’t it? Maybe I drink too much? Mom said- ‘Um-hum- come on you two bare cuddle bugs it’s getting late.’ Then- I remember getting in the car, with the girls and the fighting it was all coming back to me, as I see my sis run into her room, leaving her nighty behind on my bed. I knew that something looked different about her when I looked her over, I am starting to remember what Ray did to her last night. Yet she seems to be taking it so well- so strange. I have no idea what happened to Jenny or Maddie or Liv, and just thinking about it makes me awful sick, pissed, and yet so worried. I put my feet on the ground, first on my fuzzy shaggy throw rug, and then I step forward feeling the hard would under my feet. The cold wood reminds me. When I was younger, I would lie on the floor all summer wishing I have some friends to spend my time with. Back then my only friend was my sis and my horse, I’m curious to do the same thing now, and reflect a bit on what the heck is going on- and also on how things have changed, I know my sis will be another half hour getting ready. And with me, all I have to do is jump in my outfit laying there on the floor. My skin feels so cold yet, yet on the inside, I feel scorching. Like- photos on Instagram, all these snapshots start scrolling, row after row in my mind. Seeing bits and pieces of what went down last night. My, I- phone starts vibrating on top of my bed until it falls off the edge hitting me square in the face making me jump two feet in the air. I reach for it and slide my finger over the cracked screen.

That first night, after she'd made sure the door was locked and turned out the lights, Diana climbed into the loft and got into bed. She could see Willa's silhouette below her, sitting on her haunches at the foot of the stairs. "Come on, girl, it's okay," she said, patting the bed, and Willa had gathered herself, trotting up the stairs and leaping onto the mattress, her tail rotating madly. She licked Diana's hand, sniffed her way around the perimeter of the bed, then turned herself around three times and curled up on her side, with her back against Diana's hip. Diana wrapped her arm around the dog's head, and Willa rested her muzzle on Diana's forearm. That was how they fell asleep.

Then when I finally manage to fall asleep with my untouched mate lying next to me," he said, giving me a heated gaze, "She rolls right through her wall and onto me." "This has to be the bond--- I don't roll around in my sleep." I covered my face with a pillow. "And I certainly don't throw myself on men I've known only for a matter of weeks." I'd never thrown myself at men at all, to be honest, but Devin is not high school puppy love material, and he's no college fling that was never meant to be. If anything, he was straight out of the calendar Candace kept on her fridge. "Not that I was bothered by it. In fact, I wouldn't mind a repeat." I threw my pillow at him and covered my face as he laughed. "Please forget that happened." "Absolutely not." He pulled my hands from my face. "It was charming, don't be upset." He leaned forward and the rest of the blankets fell away. A burst of lust ran through me as my eyes wandered south, and I couldn't tell if it was from me or Devin or if it even mattered because we were both acutely aware of it. I groaned and covered my face with my hands. "I'm all yours to look at, you know." Devin gently pried my hands from my face, taking one of them to press against his chest.

Before you start training your puppy, you need to make sure you have the right crate. It should be big enough for your puppy to stand up, turn around, and lie down in comfortably, but not so big that they can use one end as a bathroom and the other as a sleeping area. The crate should also be sturdy and secure, with a door that latches properly.

It's funny, but when I was little, before I'd go to sleep my mom would do this routine with me where she'd tell me to think of pretty things. I would close my eyes and she would run her fingers over my cheeks and across my brow. And we'd go through this list. I think it was a way of preventing nightmares — and it would always be, you know, pussycats and puppy dogs and balloons at the zoo. Sometimes she'd mention yellow submarines, stars in the sky, blackbirds flying overhead, trees in Central Park, and even — believe it or not — that on Saturday I would get to see Daddy. Nothing that extraordinary, but when you're four years old, it's cats and dogs that make life worth living. And I kind of think it's maybe not so different now.

We don’t recommend letting a new pup sleep on the bed. He will not be housetrained and also a puppy needs to learn his place in the household and have his own special place. It’s up to you whether to let him on the bed or not when he’s older, but my advice is: if you value a good night’s sleep, don’t!

Why do you care what happens to a human teacher?” Sabrina said. “I thought you hated humans.” Charming said nothing. “You don’t want anything bad to happen to Ms. White,” Daphne cried. “You are in love with her. You want to kiss and hug her!” “Nonsense!” the mayor shouted. “I can’t have terrorists running around the elementary school, even if I approve of who they’re killing.” “You want to write her love notes,” the little girl persisted. “You want to hold her hand in the park and look at puppies in the pet store.” “Is there an Off button for this one?” Charming asked Granny Relda. The old woman grinned at the mayor. “You haven’t answered the questions.” “All right!” Charming surrendered. “Snow has a knack for getting in trouble. I would sleep better at night knowing she is safe.

My puppy Lennon was my best mate and I wouldn’t let him go hungry. We were in this together and we shared everything – food, drink, sleeping accommodation. I drew the line at sniffing other dogs’ arses.

Anger is better. There is a sense of being in anger. A reality and presence. An awareness of worth. It is a lovely surging. Her thoughts fall back to Mr. Yacobowski’s eyes, his phlegmy voice. The anger will not hold; the puppy is too easily surfeited. Its thirst too quickly quenched, it sleeps. The shame wells up again, its muddy rivulets seeping into her eyes. What to do before the tears come. She remembers the Mary Janes.

The list of things that keep me up at night includes, but is not limited to: appendicitis, typhoid, leprosy, unclean meat, foods I haven’t seen emerge from their packaging, foods my mother hasn’t tasted first so that if we die we die together, homeless people, headaches, rape, kidnapping, milk, the subway, sleep. An assistant teacher comes to school with bloodshot eyes, and I am convinced he’s infected with Ebola. I wait for blood to trickle from his ear or for him to just fall down dead. I stop touching my shoelaces (too filthy) or hugging adults outside of my family. In school, we are learning about Hiroshima, so I read Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes and I know instantly that I have leukemia. A symptom of leukemia is dizziness and I have that, when I sit up too fast or spin around in circles. So I quietly prepare to die in the next year or so, depending on how fast the disease progresses. My parents are getting worried. It’s hard enough to have a child, much less a child who demands to inspect our groceries and medicines for evidence that their protective seals have been tampered with. I have only the vaguest memory of a life before fear. Every morning when I wake up there is one blissful second before I look around the room and remember my daily terrors. I wonder if this is what it will always be like, forever, and I try to remember moments I felt safe: In bed next to my mother one Sunday morning. Playing with Isabel’s puppy. Getting picked up from a sleepover just before bedtime.

The chestnut has prepared to sleep and strewn its glossy auburn young, polished, mute and puppy-eyed. These are magical conkers, you know, they won't complain or contradict. They listen. Faithful, smooth but cool. Another gift I never gave you. Keep one in your pocket and think of me. I'm perfect for you in silence.

THE MOTIVATION BEHIND behavior rarely includes the goals for which it evolved. These goals stay behind the veil of evolution. We evolved nurturant tendencies, for example, to raise our own biological children, but a cute puppy triggers these tendencies just as well. Whereas reproduction is the evolutionary goal of nurturance, it isn’t part of its motivation. After a mother dies, other adult primates often take care of her weaned juvenile. Humans, too, adopt on a large scale, often going through hellish bureaucratic procedures to add children to their families. Stranger yet is cross-species adoption, such as by Pea, a rescued ostrich at the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust in Kenya. Pea was beloved by all orphaned elephant calves at the trust and took special care of a baby named Jotto, who’d stay by her side and sleep with his head on her soft feathered body. The maternal instinct is remarkably generous.38 Some biological purists call such behavior a “mistake.” If adaptive goals are the measure, Pea was making a colossal error. As soon as we move from biology to psychology, however, the perspective changes. Our impulse to take care of vulnerable young is real and overwhelming even outside the family. Similarly, when human volunteers push a stranded whale back into the ocean, they employ empathic impulses that, I can assure you, didn’t evolve to take care of marine mammals. Human empathy arose for the sake of family and friends. But once a capacity exists, it takes on a life of its own. Rather than calling the saving of a whale a mistake, we should be glad that empathy isn’t tied down by what evolution intended it for. This is what makes our behavior as rich as it is. This line of thought can also be applied to sex.

I have new words for the dictionary. to knock boots, phr., to have sexual intercourse tracks, n., contract (as in “I got a track to kill him”) to do, v., to fuck to do, v., to kill clean, adj., handsome to Brodie, v., to jump, usually from a building or a bridge; taken from a Mr. Brodie who claimed to have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge to lash, v., to urinate chronic, n., marijuana, esp. high-quality smudge, n., black person Ape Avenue, n., Eighth Avenue (police slang) puppy, n., handgun (Jamaican word) scrambler, n., low-level runner for a drug dealer cocola, n., black person (Puerto Rican word) spliv, n., black person to be hung like a horse, phr., to have influential connections in the police department; also a guy who is hung like a horse ground ball, phr., something easy or simple to pull a train, v., to have group sex, gang-bang stinger, n., drug dealer to inflash, v., to inform (as in “he inflash me with the bitch’s scenario”) to double, v., to double-park to sleep in a tent, exp., to have a large penis to be built like a tripod, phr., to have a large penis dixie cup, n., a person who is considered disposable her, she, pron., wife

Some of the reasons people want Newfoundland’s: • I want a dog that’s good with children. • I want a Newf because it loves the water. • I saw one once; he was the most beautiful do I ever saw. • I love that mellow, laid-back temperament. • I love their glossy shiny coats. They have the softest fur. They’re just wonderful to pet. • I want a really big dog. A really big dog. • I like that they’re so devoted. I have always wanted a dog that loves me best. • I’m very active. I love to hike, and camp, and I keep in shape running every day. A Newf can keep me company. • I like that they don’t need a lot of exercise. • They’re really expensive, but if I save up, I can afford to buy one. • They’re rare, and they cost a lot. I can buy a female, breed her, and make lots of money. • I work from 9 to 5. Because he’s placid, a Newf will handle my long absences okay. • They’re good house dogs. I want my dog in the house with me all the time, sleeping on the foot of my bed at night.

Thus, it came to pass that Martha and William spent every night in Venice sleeping somewhere above the slowly decaying remains of their foster daughter and a box of murdered puppies.

Eugene Peterson points out that the Hebrew concept of a day actually begins with evening, not with morning as we are accustomed to thinking. This means that each day begins with the rhythm of evening sleep and rest before the daylight hours of work and activity.7 After we sleep, we awaken to find that God has been working while we have rested: making dew-covered spiderwebs, cherry blossoms, and puppies.

I do not know what I am saying, puppy. Change frightens me. My anxiety and depression… these things are easier to control when I feel safe and secure. But I like having you around. I hope you decide to move in with us, even though I am crazy.” Hans laughed and gave him an affectionate smile. “I don’t think your therapist would like you talking like that.” “No. Thomas does not like it either.” “I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” Hans said. “We can talk about it tomorrow.” “Good.” Boris smiled, let go of his hand, and stood. “Oh, yes. Thomas tells me he kisses you now. This is good. I have no problem with it, so do not feel you have to make sure I am out of the room or anything stupid like that.” “You can kiss me too, if you want.” “I was hoping you would say that,” Boris said, grinning. “I do want. But I have been sleeping all day, and I have really bad breath. May I kiss you tomorrow?” “You may.” Hans had already figured out Boris had bad breath. He might have been willing to overlook it, but considering how tentative things were between them, it was probably better to wait. “I am looking forward to it. Goodnight, puppy.” Boris slipped from the room but stopped halfway out the door. Hans heard Thomas’s voice, though it was too quiet for him to make out what he was saying. Boris said something in response, and this time Hans could tell it was in Russian.

What do you think love is, Kayson? It's breathlessness and desperation. It's lung-seizing, heart-stopping, thigh-throbbing pain and pleasure. Love is feeling your chest empty as they walk away and then refill when they return. It's swaying together during a song and then swaying together rocking a babe to sleep. Love is the good and the bad, the pathetic and the bold, the sick puppy and the ravenous lion.

If anything's to be praised, it's most likely how the west wind becomes the east wind, when a frozen bough sways leftward, voicing its creaking protests, and your cough flies across the Great Plains to Dakota's forests. At noon, shouldering a shotgun, fire at what may well be a rabbit in snowfields, so that a shell widens the breach between the pen that puts up these limping awkward lines and the creature leaving real tracks in the white. On occasion the head combines its existence with that of a hand, not to fetch more lines but to cup an ear under the pouring slur of their common voice. Like a new centaur. There is always a possibility left to let yourself out to the street whose brown length will soothe the eye with doorways, the slender forking of willows, the patchwork puddles, with simply walking. The hair on my gourd is stirred by a breeze and the street, in distance, tapering to a V, is like a face to a chin; and a barking puppy flies out of a gateway like crumpled paper. A street. Some houses, let's say, are better than others. To take one item, some have richer windows. What's more, if you go insane, it won't happen, at least, inside them. ... and when 'the future' is uttered, swarms of mice rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece of ripened memory which is twice as hole-ridden as real cheese. After all these years it hardly matters who or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes, and your mind resounds not with a seraphic 'do', only their rustle. Life, that no one dares to appraise, like that gift horse's mouth, bares its teeth in a grin at each encounter. What gets left of a man amounts to a part. To his spoken part. To a part of speech. Not that I am losing my grip; I am just tired of summer. You reach for a shirt in a drawer and the day is wasted. If only winter were here for snow to smother all these streets, these humans; but first, the blasted green. I would sleep in my clothes or just pluck a borrowed book, while what's left of the year's slack rhythm, like a dog abandoning its blind owner, crosses the road at the usual zebra. Freedom is when you forget the spelling of the tyrant's name and your mouth's saliva is sweeter than Persian pie, and though your brain is wrung tight as the horn of a ram nothing drops from your pale-blue eye.

LET ME OUT! At some point your dog is bound to try barking or whining to get out of the crate. This is natural, it’s his way of trying to let you know that he wants out or desires your company. It is important however that you do not inadvertently reinforce the barking or whining by letting him out (or telling him “it’s okay”) while he’s making a fuss. Instead, ignore him until he quiets down on his own. If they’re not reinforced for making a fuss, most pups will learn to settle down and be quiet when left in their crate or sleeping room. If he starts barking relentlessly, and you’re beginning to pull your hair out by the roots, do whatever you need to do to cope (ear plugs? wine?) but don’t shout at him to “BE QUIET!” If you do, you are basically barking back, and as anyone with multiple dogs knows, barking is contagious! Even if your dog understands that you are irritated, you’ve still given him attention, and that, after all, is what he wanted. If you need to get him out of the kennel when he’s crying or barking, distract him with a noise (click of the tongue, tap on the wall, anything that gets his attention) to get him quiet for a moment. The instant that he is quiet you can let him out of the kennel. The one exception is if your pup is trying to tell you that he has to potty. If you think this might be the case, take him outside quietly, give him his “go potty” cue, treat and praise when he does and then put him right back in the crate.

Sweet puppy, you listen to me now,” I tease. “If you think you have what it takes to ride this rollercoaster, you are sorely mistaken. In your current state, you wouldn’t make it up the first hill. There will be no having my way with you tonight. There will only be sleep.