Alert Dog Quotes

Total?" I called. He looked up alertly, then ran over to me, small pink tongue hanging out. Total?" I said when he was close. "Can you talk?" He flopped down on the grass, panting slightly. "Yeah. So?" Jeezum. I mean, mutant weirdos are nothing new to me, you know? But a talking dog?

...; Clary saw the group of lycanthropes look up, alert as a group of hunting dogs senting game. She turned- And saw Luke, tired and bloodstained, coming through the double doors of the Hall. She ran toward him. Forgetting how upset she'd been when he'd left, and forgetting how angry he'd been with her for bringing them here, forgetting everything but how glad she was to see him. He looked surprised for a moment as she barreled toward him- then he smiled, and put his arms out, and picked her up as he hugged her, the way he'd done when she'd been very small. He smelled like blood and flannel and smoke, and for a moment she closed her eyes, thinking of the way Alec had grabbed onto Jace the moment he'd seen him in the Hall, because that was what you did with family when you'd been worried about them, you grabbed them and held on to them and told them how much they'd pissed you off, and it was okay, becaused no matter how angry you got, they still belonged to you. And what she had said to Valentine was true. Luke was her family.

Saskia groaned again. She threw back her bed covers, the last vestiges of sleep leaving her. It would be evening in Lyon. Clarissa would be expecting to hear from her. A call-in at least once every 24 hours was part of several protocols Clarissa had established. The instruction at the end of the conversation, “Give the dogs a pat for me”, reassured Clarissa that all was well. Leave the words out, replace any one of the words in the sentence with another or not place a call in a 24-hour period, and Clarissa would alert authorities. In her younger years, Clarissa had served in the British army. Her experiences in those years had caused the trauma she now lived with, though she used her expertise by teaching her three partners basic self-defence, how to operate firearms and how to wield weapons. She also programmed their watches and phones to enable her to constantly track their whereabouts, explaining, “I want to know that my three charges are safe”. Another protocol was to always check accommodation venues for listening devices. Saskia did this before calling Clarissa. “Clarissa. Ça va?” “What have you to report?

He marveled at the strange blindness by which men, though they are so alert to what changes in themselves, impose on their friends an image chosen for them once and for all. He was being judged by what he had been. Just as dogs don't change character, men are dogs to one another.

I think you can tell by now that I'm not the type of man to beat around the bush. I'll tell you exactly what I want from you." Maxon took a step closer. My breath caught in my throat. I'd just walked into the very situation I feared. No guards, no cameras, no one to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. Knee-jerk reaction. Literally. I kneed His Majesty in the thigh. Hard. Maxon let out a yell and reached down, clutching himself as I backed away from him. "What was that for?" "If you lay a single finger on me, I'll do worse!" I promised. "What?" "I said, if you-" "No, no, you crazy girl, I heard you the first time." Maxon grimaced. "But just what in the world do you mean by it?" I felt the heat run through my body. I'd jumped to the worst possible conclusion and set myself up to fight something that obviously wasn't coming. The guards ran up, alerted by our little squabble. Maxon waved them away from an awkward, half-bent position. We were quiet for a while, and once Maxon was over the worst of his pain, he faced me. "What did you think I wanted?" he asked. I ducked my head and blushed. "America, what did you think I wanted?" He sounded upset. More than upset. Offended. He had obviously guessed what I'd assumed, and he didn't like that one bit. "In public? You thought...for heaven's sake. I'm a gentleman!" He started to walk away but turned back. "Why did you even offer to help if you think so little of me?" I couldn't even look him in the eye. I didn't know how to explain I had been prepped to expect a dog, that the darkness and privacy made me feel strange, that I'd only ever been alone with one other boy and that was how we behaved.

The 46-year-old recipient of the Jarvik IX Exterior Artificial Heart was actively window shopping in Cambridge, Massachusetts’ fashionable Har­vard Square when a transvestite purse snatcher, a drug addict with a crimi­nal record all too well known to public officials, bizarrely outfitted in a strapless cocktail dress, spike heels, tattered feather boa, and auburn wig, brutally tore the life sustaining purse from the woman’s unwitting grasp. The active, alert woman gave chase to the purse snatching ‘woman’ for as long as she could, plaintively shouting to passers by the words ‘Stop her! She stole my heart!’ on the fashionable sidewalk crowded with shop­pers, reportedly shouting repeatedly, ‘She stole my heart, stop her!’ In response to her plaintive calls, tragically, misunderstanding shoppers and passers by merely shook their heads at one another, smiling knowingly at what they ignorantly presumed to be yet another alternative lifestyle’s re­lationship gone sour. A duo of Cambridge, Massachusetts, patrolmen, whose names are being withheld from Moment’s dogged queries, were publicly heard to passively quip, ‘Happens all the time,’ as the victimized woman staggered frantically past in the wake of the fleet transvestite, shouting for help for her stolen heart.

Something snaps. I hear a gasp. I spin around. I jump up, alert, searching for the sound. It seemed close by. Someone saw me. Someone— A civilian. She’s already darting away, her body pressed against the wall of a nearby unit. “Hey!” I shout. “You there—” She stops. Looks up. I nearly collapse. Juliette. She’s staring at me. She’s actually here, staring at me, her eyes wide and panicked. My legs are suddenly made of lead. I’m rooted to the ground, unable to form words. I don’t even know where to start. There’s so much I want to say to her, so much I’ve never told her, and I’m just so happy to see her—God, I’m so relieved— She’s disappeared. I spin around, frantic, wondering whether I’ve actually begun to lose my grip on reality. My eyes land on the little dog still sitting there, waiting for me, and I stare at it, dumbfounded, wondering what on earth just happened. I keep looking back at the place I thought I saw her, but I see nothing. Nothing. I run a hand through my hair, so confused, so horrified and angry with myself that I’m tempted to rip it out of my head. What is happening to me.

All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang.

Human remains dogs are distinct from the dogs that search for escaped felons and the dogs that search for whole cadavers. They are trained to alert their owners when they detect the specific scents of decomposed human tissue. They can pinpoint the location of a corpse at the bottom of a lake by sniffing the water’s surface for the gases and fats that float up from the rotting remains. They can detect the lingering scent molecules of a decomposing body up to fourteen months after the killer lugged it away.

Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher —the old crowd. Lie low at Lupin's for a while, I will contact you there." "But —" said Harry. He wanted Sirius to stay. He did not want to say goodbye again so quickly, "You'll see me very soon, Harry," said Sirius, turning to him. "I promise you. But I must do what I can, you understand, don't you?" "Yeah," said Harry.. "Yeah... of course I do." Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, and ran the length of the room to the door, whose handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone.

There's no such thing as a superhuman. But the only thing I got to tell you, if you take a dog and kick him around he's got to be alert, he's got to be more sharper than you. Well, we've been kicked around for two thousand years. We're not more smarter, we're more alert.

She had been looking all round her again—at the lawn, the great trees, the reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house; and while engaged in this survey she had made room in it for her companions; a comprehensiveness of observation easily conceivable on the part of a young woman who was evidently both intelligent and excited. She had seated herself and had put away the little dog; her white hands, in her lap, were folded upon her black dress; her head was erect, her eye lighted, her flexible figure turned itself easily this way and that, in sympathy with the alertness with which she evidently caught impressions. Her impressions were numerous, and they were all reflected in a clear, still smile. "I've never seen anything so beautiful as this.

Rape culture is 1 in 6 women being sexually assaulted in their lifetimes. Rape culture is not even talking about the reality that many women are sexually assaulted multiple times in their lives. Rape culture is the way in which the constant threat of sexual assault affects women’s daily movements. Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you’re alone, if you’re with a stranger, if you’re in a group, if you’re in a group of strangers, if it’s dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you’re carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you’re wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who’s around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who’s at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn’t follow all the rules it’s your fault.

dogs are always alert to what their owners are doing. They may give you the impression of being asleep, but you move from your seat, close a book, lean forward, and they’re up on all fours, staring at you, their eyes saying, whatever it is, whatever you’re doing I’m IN!

The Anglican service today was more familiar to me from movies. Like one of the great Shakespeare speeches, the graveside oration, studded in fragments in the memory, was a succession of brilliant phrases, book titles, dying cadences that breathed life, pure alertness, along the spine.

There's no better loyalty then what comes from our dogs. They walk by our side, and alert us when someone's entering our territory. They greet us at the door, with love, like we've been gone for months. God placed them on the earth so, even in our most lonely times we have someone to love.

I dream I'm a wolf sometimes, and when I wake up, I'm panting and my fur's on alert and I'm feeling Yeah, the world could hurt me, but I could hurt the world right back even harder. Like there's a dangerous, hard part of me chained inside, struggling to go free and just, I dunno, get even. Then I go see what's for breakfast.

One thing I've noticed since I quit drinking is that a person usually has two or three sets of impulses scratching away at some internal door at any given time. If you're sober--if you're alert, and paying attention to those impulses, and not yielding to the instinct to anesthetize them--you can receive a lot of guidance about where to go, what to do next in life.

David Copperfield had a fever when he’d gone to bed, and Larch went to check on the boy. Dr. Larch was relieved to feel that young Copperfield’s fever had broken; the boy’s forehead was cool, and a slight sweat chilled the boy’s neck, which Larch carefully rubbed dry with a towel. There was not much moonlight; therefore, Larch felt unobserved. He bent over Copperfield and kissed him, much in the manner that he remembered kissing Homer Wells. Larch moved on to the next bed and kissed Smokey Fields, who tasted vaguely like hot dogs; yet the experience was soothing to Larch. How he wished he had kissed Homer more, when he’d had the chance! He went from bed to bed, kissing the boys; it occurred to him, he didn’t know all their names, but he kissed them anyway. He kissed all of them. When he left the room, Smokey Fields asked the darkness, ‘What was that all about?’ But no one else was awake, or else no one wanted to answer him. I wish he would kiss me like that, thought Nurse Edna, who had a very alert ear for unusual goings-on. ‘I think it’s nice,’ Mrs. Grogan said to Nurse Angela, when Nurse Angela told her about it. ‘I think it’s senile,’ Nurse Angela said. But Homer Wells, at Wally’s window, did not know that Dr. Larch’s kisses were out in the world, in search of him. He didn’t know, either – he could never have imagined it! – that Candy was also awake, and also worried. If he does stay, if he doesn’t go back to St. Cloud’s, she was thinking, what will I do? The sea tugged all around her. Both the darkness and the moon were failing.

Virtually every Chinese citizen whom I came to know well was doing something technically illegal, although usually the infraction was so minor that they didn’t have to worry. It might be a sketchy apartment registration or a small business that bought its products from unlicensed wholesalers. Sometimes, it was comic: late at night, there were always people out walking their dogs in Beijing, because the official dog registration was ridiculously expensive. The dogs were usually ratlike Pekingese, led by sleepy owners who snapped to alertness if they saw a cop. They were guerillas walking toy dogs.

The unexamined life is eminently worth living, were anyone so fortunate. It would be the life of an animal, brave and alert, with instincts instead of opinions and decisions, loyalty to mate and cubs, to the pack. It might, for all we know, be a life of richest interest and happiness. Dogs dream. The quickened spirit of the eagle circling in high cold air is beyond our imagination. The placidity of cattle shames the Stoic, and what critic has the acumen of a cat? We have used the majesty of the lion as a symbol of royalty, the wide-eyed stare of owls for wisdom, the mild beauty of the dove for the spirit of God.

Here was neither peace nor rest, nor a moment's safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang.

The siren songs have ended, and so has my inner conflict. Now the flag is raised for my last race. The speed will be such that screams will accompany me. The past has come to an end; I am the future in progress. Don’t call me, because I won’t be able to hear you. But I will sense you on sunny days, under the renewed caress of bullets. [...] I will keep a look out for you, in the way a dog remains alert while it’s resting, and I will imagine every part of you, piece by piece, and altogether. If one day you feel the force of an overbearing presence, don’t turn around, don’t break the spell, just keep on preparing my coffee, and let me experience you in that instant, for always.

When it came to Elizabeth Zott, he [Six-Thirty, the dog] was on high alert. She’d suffered in her past—he could sense it—and he was determined she should never suffer again. It was the same for Elizabeth. She sensed that Six-Thirty had also suffered beyond the usual dog-left-by-the-roadside neglect, and she, too, felt the need to protect him.

Alertness is a requirement of the writing life, staying nimble on your feet, open to the stories that will rise up and flower around you while you are walking your dog on the beach or taking the kids to soccer practice. The great stories often make their approach with misdirection, camouflage, or smoke screens to hide their passage through your life.

If people in our Christian fellowships today were to announce that they had decided to keep God’s law, we would probably be skeptical and alarmed. We probably would take them aside for counseling and possibly alert other responsible people in the group to keep an eye on them. We would be sure nothing good would come of it. We know that one is not saved by keeping the law and can think of no other reason why one should try to do it. This leaves us caught in a strange inversion of the work of the Judaizing teachers who dogged the footsteps of Paul in New Testament days. As they wanted to add obedience to ritual law to faith in Christ, we want to subtract moral law from faith in Christ. How to combine faith with obedience is surely the essential task of the church as it enters the twenty-first century.

If the experience is familiar and known as safe, the brain’s stress system will not be activated. However, if the incoming information is initially unfamiliar, new or strange, the brain instantly begins a stress response. How extensively these stress systems are activated is related to how threatening the situation appears. It’s important to understand that our default is set at suspicion, not acceptance. At a minimum, when faced with a new and unknown pattern of activity, we become more alert. The brain’s goal at this point is to get more information, to examine the situation and determine just how dangerous it might be. Since humans have always been the deadliest animal encountered by other humans, we closely monitor nonverbal signals of human menace, such as tone of voice, facial expression and body language.

They would give a lecture about how a pilot should never fly without a good solid breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast, and so forth—because if he tried to fly with his blood-sugar level too low, it could impair his alertness. Naturally, the next day every hot dog in the unit would get up and have a breakfast consisting of one cup of black coffee and take off and go up into a vertical climb until the weight of the ship exactly canceled out the upward thrust of the engine and his air speed was zero, and he would hang there for one thick adrenal instant—and then fall like a rock, until one of three things happened: he keeled over nose first and regained his aerodynamics and all was well, he went into a spin and fought his way out of it, or he went into a spin and had to eject or crunch it, which was always supremely possible.

Incrimination and heady elation, cutting capers in the misty vapours, havoc and ravage hurrah for the savage life precarious, life so various, life nefarious and temerarious, pulling faces, fierce grimaces, leaving traces in rocky places, pieces and faeces all over the fleece is that a yow's shoulder they've left there to moulder stuck up on a boulder? Much to learn, Rowf, in the fern, of great concern, for this is the point of no return. Those who kill sheep should mind where they sleep, when there's nothing to hear the shot-gun is near, the curse of the farmer is likely to harm yer, a scent in the morning is sent for a warning, at a cloud on the sun a wise dog will run, it's the sharp and alert who avoid being hurt and a dog that's gone feral is living in peril. Those with blood on their paws and wool in their jaws should heed these old saws.

Hello, freak,” Drake said. Lana backed away, but too late. Drake leveled his gun at her. “I’m right-handed. ’Least I used to be. But I can still hit you from this distance.” “What do you want?” Drake motioned toward the stump of his right arm. It was gone from just above the elbow. “What do you think I want?” The one time she’d seen Drake Merwin, he had made her think of Pack Leader: strong, hyper alert, dangerous. Now, the lean physique looked gaunt, the shark’s grin was a tight grimace, his eyes were red-rimmed. His stare, once languidly menacing, was now intense, burning hot. He looked like someone who had been tortured beyond endurance. “I’ll try,” Lana said. “You’ll do more than try,” he said. He convulsed in pain, face scrunched. A low, eerie moan escaped his throat. “I don’t know if I can grow a whole arm back,” Lana said. “Let me touch it.” “Not here,” he hissed. He motioned with his gun. “Through the back door.” “If you shoot me, I can’t help you,” Lana argued. “Can you heal dogs? How about if I blow his brains out? Can you heal that, freak?

A dachshund came out of the bushes. Ruzena's father extended his pole toward him, but the dog alertly evaded it and ran over to the boy, who lifted him up and hugged him. Other old men rushed over to help Ruzena's father and tear the dachshund out of the boy's arms. The boy was crying, shouting, and grappling with them so that the old men had to twist his arms and put a hand over his mouth because his cries were attracting too much attention from the passersby, who were turning to look but not daring to intervene. [...] Jakub was leading the dog by the collar toward the hotel steps when one of the old men shouted: "Release that dog at once!" And the other old man: "In the name of the law!" Jakub pretended not to notice the old men and kept going, but behind him a pole slowly descended alongside his body and the wire loop wavered clumsily over the boxer's head. Jakub grabbed the end of the pole and brusquely pushed it aside. A third old man ran up and shouted: "Its an attack on law and order! I'm going to call the police!" And the high-pitched voice of another old man complained: "He ran on the grass! He ran in the playground, where it's prohibited! He pissed in the kids' sandbox! Do you like dogs more than children?" The boxer scampered around the room curiously, unaware that he had just escaped danger. Jakub stretched out on the daybed, wondering what to do with him. He liked the lively, good-natured dog. The insouciance with which, in a few minutes, he had made himself at home in a strange room and struck up a friendship with a strange man was nearly suspicious and seemed to verge on stupidity. After sniffing all corners of the room, he leaped up on the daybed and lay down beside Jakub. Jakub was startled, but he welcomed without reservation this sign of camaraderie. He put his hand on the dog's back and felt with delight the warmth of the animal's body. He had always liked dogs. They were familiar, affectionate, devoted, and at the same time entirely incomprehensible. We will never know what actually goes on in the heads and hearts of these confident, merry emissaries from incomprehensible nature.

Their leader looked over at me, his flawless lips in an even line, his nose chiseled to a point like an arrow aimed my way. Raven waves fell away from big eyes exhibiting more alertness in their stare than any animal or human naturally possessed. Despite how defenseless I knew myself to be, I refused to show him fear. Jovani turned back to the four members from his clan. “I won’t need backup, Percival, I have a priceless bargaining chip.” From the way the others eyed my form, I understood it was me he considered his negotiating leverage. I felt somewhat confident that meant I was more valuable alive. “This stinks,” one of the lady vampires complained. “No, Concetta, that’s just the dog.” A perky nose sniffed in my direction as they shared a trill of amusement at my expense. All but Jovani.

The Equator runs close to the Rongai Valley, and, even at so high an altitude as this we hunted in, the belly of the earth was hot as live ash under our feet. Except for an occasional gust of fretful wind that flattened the high, corn-like grass, nothing uttered — nothing in the valley stirred. The chirrup-like drone of grasshoppers was dead, birds left the sky unmarked. the sun reigned and there were no aspirants to his place. We stopped by the red salt-lick that cropped out of the ground in the path of our trail. I did not remember a time when the salt-lick was as deserted as this. Always before it had been crowded with grantii, impala, kongoni, eland, water-buck, and a dozen kinds of smaller animals. But it was empty today. It was like a marketplace whose flow and bustle of life you had witnessed ninety-nine times, but, on your hundredth visit, was vacant and still without even an urchin to tell you why. I put my hand on Arab Maina’s arm. ‘What are you thinking, Maina? Why is there no game today?’ ‘Be quiet, Lakweit, and do not move.’ I dropped the butt of my spear on the earth and watched the two Murani stand still as trees, their nostrils distended, their ears alert to all things. Arab Kosky’s hand was tight on his spear like the claw of an eagle clasping a branch. ‘It is an odd sign,’ murmured Arab Maina, ‘when the salt-lick is without company!’ I had forgotten Buller, but the dog had not forgotten us. He had not forgotten that, with all the knowledge of the two Murani, he still knew better about such things. He thrust his body roughly between Arab Maina and myself, holding his black wet nose close to the ground. And the hairs along his spine stiffened. His hackles rose and he trembled. We might have spoken, but we didn’t. In his way Buller was more eloquent. Without a sound, he said, as clearly as it could be said — ‘Lion.

Er, hello, Chewie," he said politely. "Woof," the dog said back. "Chewie is a Newfoundland," Beka explained. "They're great water dogs. They swim better than we do, and even have webbed feet. They're often used for water rescue, and the breed started out as working dogs for fishermen." "Uh-huh... Chewie - I guess you named him for Chewbacca in Star Wars. I can see why; they're both gigantic and furry." Beka giggled. "I never thought of that. Actually, Chewie is short for Chudo-Yudo. Also, he chews on stuff a lot, so it seemed fitting." "Chudo what?" Marcus said. The dog made a snuffling sound that might have been canine laughter. "Chudo-Yudo," Beka repeated. "He's a character out of Russian fairy tales, the dragon that guards the Water of Life and Death. You never heard of him?" Marcus shook his head. "My father used to tell the occasional Irish folk tale when I was a kid, but I'm not familiar with Russian ones at all. Sorry." "Oh, don't be," she said cheerfully. "Most of them were pretty gory, and they hardly ever had happy endings." "Right." Marcus looked at the dog, who gazed alertly back with big brown eyes, as if trying to figure out if the former Marine was edible or not. "So, you named him after a mythical dragon from a depressing Russian story. Does anyone get eaten in that story, just out of curiosity?" Chewie sank down onto the floor with a put-upon sigh, and Beka shook her head at Marcus. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course people got eaten. But don't worry. Chewie hasn't taken a bite out of anyone in years. He's very mellow for a dragon.

Ah! you cliques of the city!—don’t you know you had forebears with handlebar mustaches, who came down to the river in the morning bearing masts and booms on their shoulders? who killed their own bulls with a mighty club? who made their own clothes and tilled their own earth? For a million of your clever fashionable phrases, would you exchange one single such accomplishment? I know I would—and Oh God but I’m just as futile as you are, you city vermin; I too am vermin, vermin trying to struggle back to manhood, with small success. Here is our second illuminative nugget, with no emotions this time: that the fear of the family album is pursuant to the city’s general fear of time and particularly of the past (“Oh the stupid Victorian 19th Century!” they keep crying, as though Victorianism were the whole sum of that great century). Fear of the past is in the city, thus a love, a frantic need of the present—with all the hedonistic overtones involved, the psychological doctrines of “alertness” and the so-called liberation of sexuality: in other words, giving the moment over to the dictates of sexuality (divorce is such a dictate) and leaving time, the future—which is to them equivalent to the past, as a moral factor rather than a hedonistic factor of the “pulsing present”—leaving the future to the dogs, childless marriages, or one-child “families,” broken-up families, and thus leaving the future of mankind and the race to the dogs: to the destruction at the hands of a society’s inward atom bomb of organic-familial-societal disintegration: in short, the end of a race, as in Rome. This fear of reaching back into the past, into lineality and tradition, and of extending similarly forward into the future, is like a plant drying up, dying. Where I say this, they speak of the “reality of the moment” and the danger of suppressing the urges of the moment for any reason—but I find good reason if it is to spell the continuation of our own cultural mankind. Perhaps that’s what they don’t want, like children who resent all brothers and sisters burgeoning in their mother’s womb, resenting the future after them, feeling they should be the last, final men, that none must follow—a childish emotion. But to give oneself over to childish emotions is the aim of these city intellectuals, they abstrusely find much to “scientifically” substantiate this desire in the cult of psychoanalysis and its sub-cults, the Orgone “Institute” for one splendid example, and so they go ahead blithely, and I am not the one to oppose their concepts, their march off the ship’s plank—since I am marching to a plank of my own, since I do not wish to be reviled as a neurotic and an atavistic neo-fascist, since the other night, when mentioning these objections of mine, a city intellectual had apoplexy right before me. Oh

Eyes are windows to the soul.” His voice rang with profound meaning I couldn’t grasp. Deep-chested baying alerted us to the approaching pack. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. “Curtains are half off at JCPenney,” I snapped. “What’s your point?

You’re very sexual, Shelly,” Molly told her. “There should be an iPhone app for when you’re on the move, like an Amber Alert. ‘Shelly’s in South Africa, she’s been drinking for eight days straight, and she’s on the move. Anyone can be a victim! Men, women, dogs.’ There should be a flashing red dot on maps like Google maps that warn people where Shelly is and to get inside their homes and lock their doors. ‘There’s a sexual twister headed in your direction. She could hit ground at any time. Anyone can be a victim! Men, women, dogs.

Rescue dogs are trained to perform such responses on command, often in repulsive situations, such as fires, that they would normally avoid unless the entrapped individuals are familiar. Training is accomplished with the usual carrot-and stick method. One might think, therefore, that the dogs perform like Skinnerian rats, doing what has been reinforced in the past, partly out of instinct, partly out of a desire for tidbits. If they save human lives, one could argue, they do so for purely selfish reasons. The image of the rescue dog as a well-behaved robot is hard to maintain, however, in the face of their attitude under trying circumstances with few survivors, such as in the aftermath of the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. When rescue dogs encounter too many dead people, they lose interest in their job regardless of how much praise and goodies they get. This was discovered by Caroline Hebard, the U.S. pioneer of canine search and rescue, during the Mexico City earthquake of 1985. Hebard recounts how her German shepherd, Aly, reacted to finding corpse after corpse and few survivors. Aly would be all excited and joyful if he detected human life in the rubble, but became depressed by all the death. In Hebard's words, Aly regarded humans as his friends, and he could not stand to be surrounded by so many dead friends: "Aly fervently wanted his stick reward, and equally wanted to please Caroline, but as long as he was uncertain about whether he had found someone alive, he would not even reward himself. Here in this gray area, rules of logic no longer applied." The logic referred to is that a reward is just a reward: there is no reason for a trained dog to care about the victim's condition. Yet, all dogs on the team became depressed. They required longer and longer resting periods, and their eagerness for the job dropped off dramatically. After a couple of days, Aly clearly had had enough. His big brown eyes were mournful, and he hid behind the bed when Hehard wanted to take him out again. He also refused to eat. All other dogs on the team had lost their appetites as well. The solution to this motivational problem says a lot about what the dogs wanted. A Mexican veterinarian was invited to act as stand-in survivor. The rescuers hid the volunteer somewhere in a wreckage and let the dogs find him. One after another the dogs were sent in, picked up the man's scent, and happily alerted, thus "saving" his life. Refreshed by this exercise, the dogs were ready to work again. What this means is that trained dogs rescue people only partly for approval and food rewards. Instead of performing a cheap circus trick, they are emotionally invested. They relish the opportunity to find and save a live person. Doing so also constitutes some sort of reward, but one more in line with what Adam Smith, the Scottish philosopher and father of economics, thought to underlie human sympathy: all that we derive from sympathy, he said, is the pleasure of seeing someone else's fortune. Perhaps this doesn't seem like much, but it means a lot to many people, and apparently also to some bighearted canines.

When searching for a victim that is out of sight, such as under rubble, water, or in darkness, the handler wants an indication from the dog that is unmistakable, or “bombproof.” However, occasionally you’ll be on a search where even the best trained dog will do the bombproof alert. This is where close observation of your dog’s body language can help you solve the problem. – Marcia Koenig

Hill’s Prescription Diet b/d Canine Healthy Aging & Alertness

feathers projecting from her hat as of the bellhops dragging her luggage behind her. But what guaranteed her position as the natural center of attention were the two borzois she had on leash. In an instant the Count could see that they were magnificent beasts. Their coats silver, their loins lean, their every sense alert, these dogs had been raised to give chase in the cold October air with a hunting party hot on their heels. And at day’s end? They were meant to sit at the feet of their master before a fire in a manor house—not adorn the hands of a willow in the lobby of a grand hotel. . . . The injustice of this was not lost on the dogs. As their mistress addressed Arkady at the front desk, they tugged every which way, sniffing about for familiar landmarks. “Stop it!” the willow commanded in a surprisingly husky voice. Then she yanked in a manner that showed she had no more familiarity with the wolfhounds on her leashes than she had with the birds that had feathered her hat. The Count gave the situation the shake of the head it deserved. But as he turned to go, he noticed with some amusement that a slender shadow suddenly jumped from behind a wingback chair to the edge of one of the potted palms. It was none other than Field Marshal Kutuzov attaining higher ground to take measure of his foes. When the dogs turned their heads in unison with their ears upright,

Rosie got us out of our slump, but she sleeps with one eye open, if I so much as sigh she is alert. If I look up from my book, or take off my reading glasses, she is tensed to follow. I found out that her owner died in the World Trade Center, and she had been brought to the shelter by a weeping relative. Whoever the man was, he must have loved her as I do, he trained her, and when I tell her to sit and she sits, I swear I can feel his ghost hovering nearby. I want to tell the people who loved him that his dog is part of a family now, that she is doing fine.

Three times a day, for the next three days, until they’ve buried my friend’s father, until they come back, the dog and I make the same rounds. I grow fond of the animal, of his ears, always alert, and of his careful gait, his determined muzzle.

Dr. Grandin herself, even in these otherwise dry and clinical reports, uses the words "stress," "pain," "fear," and "suffering" interchangeably. The creatures she describes are sensitive, sociable, communicative, alert beings who form images in their minds, think in pictures, respond to gentleness, fear harsh treatment, act by conscious intention, anticipate danger, make choices, and dread slaughter so much that their emotional terror can trigger traumatic physiological reactions affecting meat quality. Most notable of all, they display individual differences in temperament and personality. As she describes the pig playing with the toy: "Like a dog.

At sound and scent of the approaching huddle of sheep, Treve leaped to his feet; queer ancestral instincts tugging at the back of his alert young brain. In all his eight months of life he had never seen nor smelt a sheep. But his Scottish ancestors, for a hundred generations, had earned their right to live by tending such creatures as these which came trooping past the shack. Something far stronger than himself urged the put to action.

While the rancher was talking, Ed’s eye fell on Derry, squatted alertly beside him, and vainly he tried to imagine the terrier slinking back to him as Neal’s had done. He felt sure his dog- untried on big game though he was- would never quit. For that very reason Derry must not be allowed to close with the big marauder. His very courage would betray him, for Derry, not knowing the meaning of surrender, would never cease battling until he had been killed – and a cougar that would not tree was a dangerous foe even for an experienced dog.

If you’re not sure if the dog has something or not, don’t ask it if it has anything. You may talk the dog into an alert. Let the dog make up its own mind. Leave the area of greatest interest, search other areas or take a break, then bring the dog back in. Try to approach from another direction. Observe what your dog does without cueing from you; sometimes the dog will have no further interest in the area. – Marcia Koenig

He was immaculately clean, almost sparkling, a little foxy-faced boy with small rounded-at-the-top triangular ears and dark, alert eyes. He was a ruddy chestnut brown with white points on his face, chest, paws, and tail, a handsome, elegant, and with an uncanny presence, especially considering he weighed not much more than twenty pounds. He was clearly the kind of dog judges say “asks to win,” the kind of creature you somehow find yourself drawn to look at, no matter how many other dogs are around. It was no surprise at all that he was so successful in the show ring.

Your dog will determine the distance of these first runaways. Young pups may only be able to trail short distances where older dogs may cover 50 yards quickly. Just remember to keep it short enough for the dog not to lose interest, but long enough to see the dog’s head drop to the ground which tells you he is using its nose. Periodically try to place at least one turn in the Intensity trail so the dog doesn’t always think the find is going to be straight ahead. You will be able to tell the dog is becoming distracted or bored when you see him pausing or stopping to check or smell other things. If this occurs, quickly have the trail layer make a noise or motion to regain the focus. When the dog regains his focus, quickly give a verbal cue showing your approval. It is best to alert the trail layer to this possibility so they are prepared to react. Opal running a hound in Italy

then, suddenly, and for no reason he could think of, he was very conscious of the life around him, the Parisian chatter and laughter that filled the smoky air of the restaurant. A strange awareness; not enjoyment, more apprehension. Like the dogs, he thought. Sometimes, at rest, they would raise their heads, alert to something distant, then, after a moment, lie back down again, always with a kind of sigh. What would happen to these people, he wondered, if war came here?

She mentioned several times that the dog alerted to areas where there may have been some sort of trauma or struggle such as an argument. She said that scent from people pools and collects in areas.

The born watchdog patrols his beat once in so often during the night. At all times he must sleep with one ear and one eye alert. By day or by night he must discriminate between the visitor whose presence is permitted and the trespasser whose presence is not. He must know what class of undesirables to scare off with a growl and what class needs stronger measures. He must also know to the inch the boundaries of his own master’s land.

The Rooster taught me to wake up early and be a leader. The Butterfly encouraged me to allow a period of struggles to develop strong and look beautiful. The Squirrel showed me to be alert and fast all the time. The Dog influenced me to give up my life for my best friend. The Cat told me to exercise every day. Otherwise, I will be lazy and crazy. The Fox illustrated me to be subtle and keep my place organized and neat. The Snake demonstrated to me to hold my peace even if I am capable of attack, harm, or kill. The Monkey stimulated me to be vocal and communicate. The Tiger cultivated me to be active and fast. The Lion cultured me not to be lazy especially if I have strength and power that could be used. The Eagle was my sample for patience, beauty, courage, bravery, honor, pride, grace, and determination. The Rat skilled me to find my way out no matter what or how long it takes. The Chameleon revealed to me the ability to change my color for beauty and protection. The Fish display to live in peace even if I have to live a short life. The Delphin enhanced me to be the source of kindness, peace, harmony, and protection. The Shark enthused me to live as active and restful as I can be. The Octopus exhibited me to be silent and intelligent. The Elephant experienced me with the value of cooperation and family. To care for others and respect elders. The Pig indicated to me to act smart, clean, and shameless. The Panda appears to me as life is full of white and black times but my thick fur will enable me to survive. The Kangaroo enthused me to live with pride even if I am unable to walk backward. The Penguin influenced me to never underestimate a person. The Deer reveals the ability to sense the presence of hunters before they sense you. The Turtle brightened me to realize that I will get there no matter how long it takes me while having a shell of protection above me. The Rabbit reassured me to allow myself to be playful and silly. The Bat proved to me that I can fly even in darkness. The Alligator/crocodile alerted me that threat exists. The Ant moved me to be organized, active, and social with others. The Bee educated me to be the source of honey and cure for others. The Horse my best intelligent friend with who I bond. Trained me to recover fast from tough conditions. The Whale prompted me to take care of my young ones and show them life abilities. The Crab/Lobster enlightened me not to follow them when they make resolutions depending on previous undesirable events.

For her trained response, I naively let Keb pick a behavior that seemed to come naturally for her: a “jump alert.” To my enduring dismay, this evolved into a full-on body slam, as Keb started her jump five feet from me and would impact my body as a small furry missile.

Over time, I came to realize that proofing your dog to not to alert on any odor, animal remains, or bones that are nonhuman is essential. What should I proof my dog on? Live animals, dead animals, animal bones, dead fish, people, garbage, glass jars, gloves, plastic, fresh food, rotten food, excrement, and the list goes on.

And there on the door-step beside the red-headed boy, alert but calm and unmoved, sat the contrast of it all, a creature whose attitude and being flooded Mrs. Abington’s mind with visions of brown fields and gorgeous autumn woods, of men in khaki with guns, of the sudden, startling whir of quail and grouse, of the wide ranging of tireless dogs with a scent more keen than eyesight. He appeared to her as the incarnation of the out-of-doors, the genius of wood and field, the spirit of wide spaces, held prisoner within these walls of brick.

There came to him a picture of a crowded street that never slept, of a hot city roof whereon lay slumbering forms to be guarded. Who was guarding them now? Who lay, watchful and alert, beside the little master, in that fearful, strange-smelling, strange-sounding city? The touch of kind hands, the sound of kind voices had become an every-day matter in old Spot’s life, but into his heart there crept an intense, insistent longing for just one pair of arms about his neck, for the sound of just one voice in his ear.

common situation of visual miscommunication between people and dogs is when owners let their leashed dogs meet each other for the first time. The humans are often anxious about how the dogs will get along, and if you watch them instead of the dogs, you’ll often notice that the humans will hold their breath and round their eyes and mouths in an “on alert” expression. Since these behaviors are expressions of offensive aggression in canine culture, I suspect that the humans are unwittingly signaling tension. If you exaggerate this by tightening the leash, as many owners do, you can actually cause the dogs to attack each other. Think of it: the dogs are in a tense social encounter, surrounded by support from their own pack, with the humans forming a tense, staring, breathless circle around them. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen dogs shift their eyes toward their owners’ frozen faces and then launch growling at the other dog. You can avoid a lot of dogfights by relaxing the muscles in your face, smiling with your eyes, breathing slowly, and turning away from the dogs rather than leaning forward and adding more tension.

I snuck a peek into the backyard looking for anything that smacked of dog—a doghouse, a run with a leash, or anything that said pet. Nada. That didn’t mean the family didn’t keep the dog in the backyard at night and just close the gate, but planning on “could” or “might” does not work for me. I have to know and don’t risk my life on guesses. Control is critical, and dogs are rarely controllable. Second, the house behind Rashid’s offered access, but the privacy trellis in the backyard made that avenue look more like quicksand than a quick exit. Third, I could make a quarterback sneak and go right up the middle—kill the two guards and walk in right through the front door. Hell, with guards out front, they probably didn’t even lock the door. Of course, if either of the sentries managed to get off so much as a single shot, Rashid or a neighbor would be alerted and call for help. No go. Fourth, and what seemed like my least-bad option, I could go through the house on the right and over the wall separating it from Rashid’s. That house had at least a half-dozen people living in it.

French bulldog,” I blurt, and she jerks back in confusion. “What?” “That’s the dog you should get,” I say. She crosses her arms. “I’m listening.” “They’re companion dogs with good temperament—easy going, alert, sociable, patient, smart. They’re so ugly that they’re cute. It’s the dog Sean should have gotten, but he got an idiot instead.

Nimble, alert, the big white dog was not still a moment. His duty was to keep the flock compact, to head the stragglers and turn them back; and he knew his part perfectly. There was dash and fire in his work. He never barked. As he circled the flock the small Navajo sheep, edging ever toward forbidden ground, bleated their way back to the fold, the larger ones wheeled reluctantly, and the old belled rams squared themselves, lowering their massive horns as if to butt him. Never, however, did they stand their ground when he reached them, for there was a decision about Wolf which brooked no opposition. At times when he was working on one side a crafty sheep on the other would steal out into the thicket. Then Mescal called and Wolf flashed back to her, lifting his proud head, eager, spirited, ready to take his order. A word, a wave of her whip sufficed for the dog to rout out the recalcitrant sheep and send him bleating to his fellows.

We'd just finished setting the table when Longganisa's barking alerted me that our guests had arrived. Jae had quickly become her second-favorite person (I was her number one favorite, obvs), so as soon as I opened the door, she launched herself at him. Jae dropped down on a knee so he could give her all the belly rubs and attention she desired (and deserved). The two of them were so darn adorable, my heart could barely take it and I tried not to be jealous that my dog got first dibs on Jae's cuddles and kisses.

On Source: The alert by a scent detection dog when it is at the source of odor.

Scent Cone: Scent molecules disperse outward from the source in a conical pattern, forming a scent cone downwind of that point. An air-scenting dog normally works across or into the wind until he locates the scent cone. The dog’s search behavior will change as he works his way along the cone until he reaches the source, which is the quarry he is searching for. The dog will then alert his handler of the find.

I’ve found a few helpful strategies for addressing difficulties with planning and problem solving: •Mindfulness. In this case, mindfulness isn’t some complex life practice. It’s just a matter of realizing, “Oh, wait, I’m doing that thing again, which means I need to go get the vacuum/sponge/scissors and take care of this little annoyance that will only take a minute to fix and, oh, think how good I’ll feel afterward.” •Routines. In the same way that routines can be helpful for getting everyday tasks done, they can work for problem solving too. For example, if I’m waiting for Sang to get ready to go out, I’ll walk around our home, intentionally looking for little problems to take care of. Inevitably there will be a pile of clean laundry that needs folding or dishes that need to be picked up. This same routine works in the kitchen while waiting for something to boil or in the bathroom while waiting for the shower water to warm up. •Reminder software or apps. There are many apps that will send you an email or phone alert for recurring household tasks. I have one that reminds me to wash the sheets every two weeks, trim the dog’s toenails once a week and clean my car every three months. If there are some problems that occur regularly, try preempting them with scheduled reminders. •Strategic reminders. Like the reminder apps, strategically placing visual reminders around the house can nudge you into acting on common problems. Leaving the vacuum in a high-traffic area not only reminds you to vacuum more often, but it makes it easier to get the job done because the tool you need is handy. •Use chunking. If a problem gets to the point where you recognize that something needs to be done but the size of the task is now overwhelming, try breaking it into smaller parts. For example, instead of “cleaning your bedroom” start with a goal of getting everything off the floor or collecting the dirty laundry and washing it. As you tackle these smaller tasks, it will become more obvious what else is left to be done.

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

I struggle again to draw this man's face in a crowd of faces: which dog-eared lines and frayed adjectives do I use? How do I sketch his visage, the way he looked to me then, at first sight, still mysterious? Among countless pairs of brown eyes, how to distinguish those two soft, open, wise ones, their gaze alert but slightly awkward, marveling? How to outline the lips, nose, brows, chin, so that I can see them afresh, as simple as a portrait on a cafe napkin?

cowherd who is alert to every change in the forest; a daily newsletter. How does the water flow down the distant Tarlong waterfall? Have the deer moved on the Kiam Hills? Have the wild dogs had their litter? Has the bitangi flowered? Have strangers come into our forest for bamboo? I

Characteristics: An ancient breed of northern Chinese origin, this all-purpose dog of China was used for hunting, herding, pulling and protection of the home. While primarily a companion today, his working origin must always be remembered when assessing true Chow type. The general outline of a fully-coated Chow. A powerful, sturdy, squarely built, upstanding dog of Arctic type, medium in size with strong muscular development and heavy bone. The body is compact, short coupled, broad and deep, the tail set high and carried closely to the back, the whole supported by four straight, strong, sound legs. Viewed from the side, the hind legs have little apparent angulation and the hock joint and metatarsals are directly beneath the hip joint. It is this structure which produces the characteristic short, stilted gait unique to the breed. The large head with broad, flat skull and short, broad and deep muzzle is proudly carried and accentuated by a ruff. Elegance and substance must be combined into a well balanced whole, never so massive as to outweigh his ability to be active, alert and agile. Clothed in a smooth or an offstanding rough double coat, the Chow is a masterpiece of beauty, dignity and naturalness, unique in his blue-black tongue, scowling expression and stilted gait.

Stand firm in the faith The next charge is to stand firm. A common theme of leadership is the need to be steadfast and stable. Be resolute, especially in your convictions. Plant your feet shoulder length apart so that you can’t be easily blown off course. But stand firm in the faith. Stand on what is solid (Matthew 7:24- 27). Take a stand on the rock of absolute truth in a sandy world without absolutes. To stand firm in the faith you have to know the faith. You have to be grounded in the scriptures. You have to be truth-driven, scripture- soaked and washed. You have to know and articulate the Gospel. You’re only able to stand firm and put off the fear of man when you are informed by the fear of God. You need a dogged tenacity, a voraciousness for the truth of the word of God marked by a red-hot devotional life. Ransack your Bible, tear through it with urgency and let it work your soul out and work into the DNA of who you are. You need that spiritual stability. Remember how Jesus responded when he was tempted by Satan — He went to scripture. Again and again He said, “It is written...” To stand firm in the faith, you have be able to call on scripture when you’re under attack. Think of it in the context of hand to hand combat in the military. When you’re standing firm, you’re able to take a punch. You’ve got your dukes up. You’re alert and watching. You’re dodging and weaving. You’re steady and able to fight. That’s the picture Paul’s giving. In his letter to the Ephesians, he adds the context of doing this in the “whole armor of God”: “Therefore take up the whole armor of God,” he writes, “that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm” (Eph. 6:13).

All of my best friends are imaginary, but at least the cadre of dogs that once existed in my life were real. If I had a choice between super-hero, anti-hero or villain, anti-hero would win out. Somewhere in between solves the detrimental problems that those in power refuse to deal with because of financial gain. A manifesto is nothing more than a more assertive pamphlet. The mythology of comic books was extremely creative and brilliant in concept. The imaginary world offers the psychological escape that is sometimes paramount from the real world. It creates a balance that is sometimes necessary to equalize the mind. It's like an uncomplicated form of math when you don't understand math, and explains that two plus two is four in another way. Star Trek, Star Wars, and Harry Potter were very creative concepts, whole new worlds now exist for people to inhabit. Such things create jobs, revenue, and things for people to occupy themselves with. Dystopia offers great warnings about existence, alerts and informs the populace. Take vampires and werewolves, iconic in creation, still existing after a century. There's a romance angle, and something that also allows kids to enjoy Halloween by playing dress up. Here's my point: I'm a regular person that exist in a world that needs to be fixed, explored and expanded. I'm a cog in the machine, and I don't want to be in the machine. That's what a base job is, and that job usually defines the person. Writing defines me, nothing else.

seizure-alert

In summary: Withdrawing 3% or less annually is as near a sure bet as anything in this life can be. Stray much further out than 7% and your future will include dining on dog food. Stocks are critical to a portfolio’s survival rate. If you absolutely, positively want a sure thing and your yearly inflation raises, keep your withdrawal rate under 4%. And hold 75% stocks/25% bonds. Give up those yearly inflation raises and you can push up towards 6% with a 50% stock/50% bond mix. In fact, the authors of the study suggest you can withdraw up to 7% as long as you remain alert and flexible. That is, if the market takes a huge dive, cut back on your withdrawals and spending until it

hearing alert

high-alert status

That said, he returned to his lunch. Mercier drank some champagne, then, suddenly, and for no reason he could think of, he was very conscious of the life around him, the Parisian chatter and laughter that filled the smoky air of the restaurant. A strange awareness; not enjoyment, more apprehension. Like the dogs, he thought. Sometimes, at rest, they would raise their heads, alert to something distant, then, after a moment, lie back down again, always with a kind of sigh. What would happen to these people, he wondered, if war came here?

CHAPTER TWO The way back led them through a shallow valley lined with thorn-scrub and thistles, the shadows of even the smallest trees thrown far across the ground by the Red Leaf rays of the Sun-Dog. The camp was not far ahead, but Lucky had no intention of letting his guard down. The air was still, with a hint of frost, so Lucky was immediately alert when something rustled close by. He paused to see a golden shape push through the leafless twigs of the bushes. “Bella,” he greeted his litter-sister warily. Bella glanced awkwardly toward Fiery and Lick. She shook herself, but held her ground. “Hello, Lucky.” Lucky laid his rabbits on the ground and barked to Fiery. “I’ll catch up with you.” Fiery looked back over his shoulder, nodded, then summoned Lick on. Lucky shifted his attention to Bella, who was pacing back and forth, not meeting his eye. My litter-sister, he reminded himself; and yet she seemed more of a stranger than Fiery. Not

Everyone must keep alert,” Firestar continued. “If you see anything unusual, I want to know. We survived the flood and the fire. We survived Tigerstar’s dog pack, and the threat from Scourge and BloodClan. We will survive this too.

Table 1.1: Canine Body Language Body Part Position What It Can Mean Eyes Unwavering, fixed stare Challenge, threat, confident Casual gaze Calm Averted gaze Deference Pupils dilated (big, wide) Fear Wide-eyed (whites of the eyes are visible) Fear Quick, darting eyes Fear Ears Relaxed, neutral position Calm Forward, pricked Alert, attentive, or aggressive Ears pinned back Fear, defensive Mouth Panting Hot, anxious, or excited Lip licking, tongue flicking Anxious Yawn Tired or anxious Snarl (lip curled, showing teeth) Aggressive Growl Aggressive, or playful Bark Reactive, excited, playful, aggressive, or anxious Tail Up, still Alert Up with fast wag Excited Neutral, relaxed position Calm Down, tucked Fear, anxious, or submissive Stiff-wagging or still and high Agitated, excited, and perhaps unfriendly Body carriage Soft, relaxed Calm Tense, stiff Alert or aggressive Hackles up Alert or aggressive Rolling over Submissive

Generally, when a man raised an especially fine dog, some day it would stop being a dog and instead would become something on four legs that was worth money. It was still a dog, of course, but now it was something else, too, for a rich man might hear of it, or the alert dealers or kennelmen might see it, and then they would want to buy it. While a rich man may love a dog just as truly as a poor man, and there is no difference in them in this, there is a difference between them in the way they must look at money.

They’re waiting for us in the… room,” Cora sniffs, pulling back to glance at me through red-rimmed eyes. She swipes at the tears along her cheekbone. “Mandy’s at work. She said it was too hard to be here. Mom and Dad are going to wait out here, but… did you want to come in with me? To say goodbye?” “Of course.” I don’t hesitate. We rescued this dog together, and I’ll be damned if I’m not with Cora when Blizzard takes her last breath. Goddamn. Cora gives a tight nod, then alerts one of the staff that we’re ready to go in. I follow her, a solemn silence settling between us. It’s a quiet, peaceful room, adorned with electronic candles and soft music. Blizzard is lying very still on a dog bed in the center of the floor, her fluffy chest heaving ever so slowly with each breath. I feel my emotions get stuck in my throat when I lay eyes on the dog that has felt like my own for the last ten years. I’d dog-sit her when the Lawsons took family vacations. I’d take her to the dog park with Mandy and Cora, watching her chase tennis balls and make new friends. Blizzard always greeted me first when I’d walk through the front door with Mandy, collapsing onto my feet and rolling over for belly rubs. She always sat beside me at the dinner table, waiting for the snack I’d inevitably offer her, and she always wagged her tail in adoration as I sang karaoke in the Lawson’s living room.

But despite the elegant accoutrements, the impression he conveyed was of a dangerous petulance—his red-rimmed eyes darted around the room as he ate, alert to any insult, spoiling for a fight. He was edgy and quick to strike; when one of the little dogs came back to eat again, Oliver unhesitatingly jabbed it in its rear with the point of his knife; the animal jumped off and ran yelping and bleeding from the room.