Bark Bite Quotes

Beetee is still messing round the tree, doing I don't know what. At one point he snaps off a sliver of bark, joins us, and throws it against the force field. It bounces back and lands on the ground, glowing. In a few moments it returns to its original color. "Well, that explains a lot," says Beetee. I look at Peeta and can't help biting my lip to keep from laughing since it explains absolutely nothing to anyone but Beetee.

Once kids’ brains had been rewired and programmed by indoctrination, social conditioning, and brainwashing from the great design, they’d give up their dreams, aspirations, and ideals, and instead focused on acquiring as much money as they could. Another slave willing to do anything for money would roll off the assembly line. The Masters had used money to corrupt humans and turn them into dogs, barking and biting each other for their piece of the pie. This is how the world had become a dog-eat-dog world; it was all part of the great design.

There are few phrases that annoy me more than I won't bite. The only line that pisses me off faster is when some drunk, ham-faced dude in a bar sees me trying to get past him and barks: Smile,it can't be that bad! Yeah, actually, it can, jackwad.

I shut him out. Maybe I’d send a water-dog barking after him later—let it bite him in the ass.

Golden retrievers are not bred to be guard dogs, and considering the size of their hearts and their irrepressible joy in life, they are less likely to bite than to bark, less likely to bark than to lick a hand in greeting. In spite of their size, they think they are lap dogs, and in spite of being dogs, they think they are also human, and nearly every human they meet is judged to have the potential to be a boon companion who might, at many moment, cry, "Let's go!" and lead them on a great adventure.

And now I realize Lindsay's not fearless. She's terrified. She's terrified that people will find out she's faking, bullshitting her way through life, pretending to have everything together when really she's just floundering like the rest of us. Lindsay, who will bite at you if you even look in her direction the wrong way, like on of those tiny attack dogs that are always barking and snapping in the air before they're jerked backward on the chains that keep them in one place.

I may look small, but my bark AND my bite is BIG. - STRONG by Kailin Gow

I am Diogenes the Dog. I nuzzle the kind, bark at the greedy and bite scoundrels.

Her bark is worse than her bite.

Holy men tell us life is a mystery. They embrace that concept happily. But some mysteries bite and bark and come to get you in the dark.

Chuck said, “Hey. How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” Cawley looked over at him. “I’ll bite. How many?” “Fish,” Chuck said and let loose a bright bark of a laugh.

Barking dogs occasionally bite, but laughing men hardly ever shoot.

Life is too short to waste The critic bite or cynic bark, Quarrel, or reprimand; 'Twill soon be dark; Up! mind thine own aim, and God speed the mark!

Have not a hand in the blade with abandon, Cull from the fold all the brazen and bold, For a dog who just might, Love the bark and the bite, Is a carrion raven the craven of old.

I used to fear barking dogs. I would cringe and say to myself, 'Nice doggie please don't bite me I'll just go away,' but by that night I could look at them and think, I am your worst nightmare. Come closer and I will impale you upon my stick. The more I firmly visualized it, the more the dogs believed it. Now the tables had turned. Now the dogs feared me.

Intellectual controversies tend to be like dog fights without the teeth, in which the barking not the biting does the damage.

Jonquil went by with a full plate of food, and Petunia reached out and tried to snag a small cream puff from it. Jonquil lifted it over Petunia's head before she could, and clucked her tongue. "These are for Lily," she said. "Oh really?" Petunia gave her a look. "And possibly some are for that Analousian duke Jacques invited," Jonquil said with a sparkle in her eye. "But none are for you." Then she flipped one to Oliver. "You can have one, my lord earl," she said, and twirled away. "These are excellent," Oliver said, eating half of it in one bite. He fed Petunia the other half so she wouldn't get cream on her knitting. Oliver was just leaning in to steal a kiss - "I hope this means you're planning on marrying her, boy," barked King Gregor. Oliver leaped to his feet. "Sire! Yes! I mean ... I ... sire!" "I didn't pardon you and restore your earldom so that you could loll around my gardens flirting with my daughters," King Gregor said. Then he bent down and gave Petunia a kiss on the cheek. "I like him," he whispered loudly in her ear. "Me too," she whispered back, blushing.

It may be inferred again that the present movement for women’s rights will certainly prevail from the history of its only opponent, Northern conservatism. This [Northern conservatism] is a party which never conserves anything. Its history has been that it demurs to each aggression of the progressive party, and aims to save its credit by a respectable amount of growling, but always acquiesces at last in the innovation. What was the resisted novelty of yesterday is today one of the accepted principles of conservatism; it is now conservative only in affecting to resist the next innovation, which will tomorrow be forced upon its timidity and will be succeeded by some third revolution; to be denounced and then adopted in its turn. American conservatism is merely the shadow that follows Radicalism as it moves forward towards perdition. It remains behind it, but never retards it, and always advances near its leader. This pretended salt hath utterly lost its savor: wherewith shall it be salted? Its impotency is not hard, indeed, to explain. It is worthless because it is the conservatism of expediency only, and not of sturdy principle. It intends to risk nothing serious for the sake of the truth, and has no idea of being guilty of the folly of martyrdom. It always when about to enter a protest very blandly informs the wild beast whose path it essays to stop, that its “bark is worse than its bite,” and that it only means to save its manners by enacting its decent role of resistance: The only practical purpose which it now subserves in American politics is to give enough exercise to Radicalism to keep it “in wind,” and to prevent its becoming pursy and lazy, from having nothing to whip.

Finding a proper husband is rather like selecting a hound. They all have more bark than bite, my girl. One day you'll look across the breakfast table and realize the only option is obedience training. -Grandmamma Holmes

First, picture the forest. I want you to be its conscience, the eyes in the trees. The trees are columns of slick, brindled bark like muscular animals overgrown beyond all reason. Every space is filled with life: delicate, poisonous frogs war-painted like skeletons, clutched in copulation, secreting their precious eggs onto dripping leaves. Vines strangling their own kin in the everlasting wrestle for sunlight. The breathing of monkeys. A glide of snake belly on branch. A single-file army of ants biting a mammoth tree into uniform grains and hauling it down to the dark for their ravenous queen. And, in reply, a choir of seedlings arching their necks out of rotted tree stumps, sucking life out of death. This forest eats itself and lives forever.

When the course of experience made me see that there is no saviour and no special grace, no remission beyond the human, that pain is to be endured and fades, if it fades, only with time, then God became nothing to me but a dyslexic dog, with neither bark nor bite.

Every task you are given, no matter how menial, offers opportunities to observe this world at work. No detail about the people within it is too trivial. Everything you see or hear is a sign for you to decode. Over time, you will begin to see and understand more of the reality that eluded you at first. For instance, a person whom you initially thought had great power ended up being someone with more bark than bite. Slowly, you begin to see behind the appearances. As you amass more information about the rules and power dynamics of your new environment, you can begin to analyze why they exist, and how they relate to larger trends in the field. You move from observation to analysis, honing your reasoning skills, but only after months of careful attention.

Some mysteries bite and bark and come to get you in the dark.

As long as you wag your tail you are a sincere dog, when you bark you are a ferocious dog but the moment you bite you become a mad dog .

It’s not the bark that counts, oldboy. It’s the bite.

With unerring African instinct, the negroes had all discovered that Gerald had a loud bark and no bite at all, and they took shameless advantage of him.

He looked down, watching her delicate, soft fingers encircle his rock-hard dick and wondering when a hand job had turned him on so much. "Tell me what to do." "Stroke, don't pull," he said, noticing his voice was incoherent, but somehow she understood it. "North and south, not east and west." "It's huge." "Don't worry its bark is worse than its bite." She looked up at home, knitting her brows together and smiling nervously. "It bites?" He had never laughed so hard and been so hard at the same time.

And you're Cameron Wolfe. That' gotta start meaning somethin' boy. That's gotta start churnin' inside us, making us wanna be someone for those names, and not just another couple of guys who amounted to nothin' but what people said we would. No way. We're getting' out of that. We have to. We're gonna crawl and moan and fight and bite and bark at anything that gets in our way or tries to hunt us down and shoot us. All right?

Alec answered her, “You do know that it’s disturbing that you know all that, right? We thought you were some go-hard; take no prisoners, don’t-look-at-me-or-I’ll-bust-a-cap-in-your-ass, warrior.” She balled her hands up by her hips and barked in annoyance, “Well I wasn’t raised on G.I. Joes, you know! Mama raised me on princesses and fairy tales, I just happened to end up liking the swords better than the shoes in the stories, okay?” ~ Jenna

without purpose your sharp perceptions and subtle noticings are just an excuse to swim around inside your own head like a goldfish whilst the real world rages on about you. You’re all vision and no purpose, in a world that demands we constantly ready ourselves not to bark, but to bite. 

Golden retrievers are not bred to be guard dogs, and considering the size of their hearts and their irrepressible joy in life, they are less likely to bite than to bark, less likely to bark than to lick a hand in greeting. In spite of their size, they think they are lap dogs, and in spite of being dogs, they think they are also human, and nearly every human they meet is judged to have the potential to be a boon companion who might, at any moment, cry “Let’s go!” and lead them on a great adventure.

It is said "Barking dogs seldom bite".......Unfortunately many dogs do not know this proverb!

Have not a hand in the blade with abandon, Cull from the fold all the brazen and bold, For a dog who just might, Love the bark and the bite, Is a carrion raven, the craven of old.

We must be the dog that guards the house. We must be the bark and the bite.

Holy men tell us life is a mystery. They embrace that concept happily. But some mysteries bite and bark and come to get you in the dark.

You might even say their bark is as bad as their bite.

Kemble turned the full force of his pique on Robert, scowling and pointing. He was rather like an overexcited basset hound—all bark, no bite … and droopy ears.

You’re going to bark at me? I’ll bite you back.

Her bark’s worse than her bite. Although her bite is pretty bad to begin with.

Barking dogs seldom bite.....but most dogs do not know this proverb.

Glass that housed a lonely soul up til midnight's final toll. A saber from the deepest sea, meant for a groom's morality. The bark of a basket held in fright while running from a bark with bite. A stony crown that's made to share, found deep within a savage lair. A needle that pierced the lovely skin of a princess with beauty found within. A wavy lock of golden rope that once was freedom's only hope. Glittering jewels whose value increased after preserving the false deceased. Teardrops of a maiden fairy feeling neither magical nor merry.

...hoping that he might peek through a gap in the fance and see that Patch was really a big softy, all bark and no bite, or, as they sometimes say in England, "All mouth and no trousers"!

He paused a foot away, and frowned. 'Dresses aren't good for flying, ladies.' Nesta didn't reply. He lifted a brow. 'No barking and biting today?' But Nesta didn't rise to meet him, her face still drained and sallow. 'I've never worn pants,' was all she said. I could have sworn concern flashed across Cassian's features. But he brushed it aside and drawled. 'I have no doubt you'd start a riot if you did.

There are few phrases that annoy me more than I won’t bite. The only line that pisses me off faster is when some drunk, ham-faced dude in a bar sees me trying to get past him and barks: Smile, it can’t be that bad! Yeah, actually, it can, jackwad.

There are few phrases that annoy me more than I won’t bite. The only line that pisses me off faster is when some drunk, ham-faced dude in a bar sees me trying to get past him and barks: Smile, it can’t be that bad! Yeah, actually, it can, jackwad. I

There are few phrases that annoy me more than 'I won’t bite'. The only line that pisses me off faster is when some drunk, ham-faced dude in a bar sees me trying to get past him and barks: 'Smile, it can’t be that bad!' Yeah, actually, it can, jackwad.

For me, life should be more than imagination. Where can I voice my own heart and mind. As a dog is free to bark and even bite a hypocritical reality. Hypocritical humans who have feel that they are much better than anyone, but they are not even better than a dog.

When a dog barks fiercely at someone, or even bites them, it does it out of fear, not hate. If you ever have to confront an aggressive dog, don't run or shout, because you'll frighten it and it will bite you. Stand still and talk to it slowly so it becomes less scared.

Beneath the Virgin's feet were a lion and a dragon who curled around each other in a most puzzling manner and bit each other's necks. These creatures had been carved by someone who had never seen a lion or a dragon, but who had seen a great many dogs and sheep and something of the character of a dog and a sheep had got into his carving. Whenever some poor fellow was brought before the Virgin and Child to be examined the lion and the dragon would cease biting each other and look up like the Virgin's strange watchdogs and the lion would bark and the dragon would bleat angrily.

Suddenly, from the depths of that chair emerged the biggest, meanest-looking dog Jesse had ever seen. One side of his face had suffered some disfiguring injury. The jaw hung slack and the eye on that side was missing. Jesse froze in her tracks, terrified that she might be mauled by this monstrosity of a pet. She glanced around, looking for a stick or a rock or anything to defend herself. There was nothing close but she was afraid to move. Surely if the animal were dangerous, Floyd and Alice Fay would have said something. Jesse waited tensely for a moment before realizing the dog wasn’t so much growling or barking as he was howling; loudly, purposefully howling. “She don’t bite,” a voice called out. “She’s my hillbilly alarm system, letting me know that they’s strangers about.

Dogs and roses. All these suburban houses bespangled with roses and bristling with dogs. A dog behind every rose bush. For people and their hellish imaginaries, dogs are as ornamental as roses. In reality, the roses are just as vicious as the dogs or an electrified fence. There are too many of them, they are too red, their carnivorous petals close on a forbidden space. The pleasantness of the residential suburbs, the pleasantness of the sarcophagi of greenery where the television aerials gleam. The pleasantness of aphanisis in the death-laden detached houses, set in a bower of lilacs and hollyhocks. The only sign of the frenzied urge to bite and fight, the only sign of the vitrified and howling passions beneath the film of plastic is the beast of the Apocalypse, barking on the horizon beyond the flower beds.

I stepped out into the biting air and drizzle. Cyclops loped beside me, barking a couple of times, as if to tell me something. Slaver’s got Timmy! “Empress.” Matthew looked as bad as I felt—his face wan, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. He gazed at me with those woebegone brown eyes. “Tredici nears.” "Hey, aren’t you happy that we rescued Jack?” “I couldn’t see.” He hugged his arms around his torso, batting his fists against his parka. “The Lovers!” The lowest hum came from him. He stared down at me. “The twins—inseparable. Never parted.” “A path. You won’t like where it leads.” “I can’t steer, can’t change. Before there were waves or eddies; now stone. Our enemies laugh.” He raised his palm. “Hold, please.” “Are you talking to someone else?” Matthew was the Arcana switchboard, a medium. “To . . . Aric? Is he in your eyes?” Watching me through Matthew?

Come in,” I barked at the loud rap on the door. Harper entered the room. I groaned. Being in the same room as her was the very last thing I needed. “What?” I asked as she strode toward me. “The revised Bangladesh report.” She held up some papers. “You could have left it with Donna.” She placed the report down on my desk with a bang. “I’m sure if I’d left it with Donna, you’d have told me I should have handed it to you directly.” Oh. Sass. I hadn’t been expecting that. I had to bite down a grin.

A wicked look twinkled in her eye. "I'd say it's time to nut up or shut up. All this talking is gonna make me think you're all bark and no bite. "Wouldn't want to let you down." On a curse, he covered her eager mouth with his, and the world he knew ripped wide open. She tasted cool, sweet, and rich, like ice cream in the summertime, and in that instant Killian knew he would never, ever get enough of her. Laws of nature could be damned. This woman's taste was all he would ever crave. Were there other women? Who the hell cared? Sadie's soft, pliant lips opened to him as he ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth and she welcomed him in. Grasping her head with both hands, he groaned and took full control of the plundering kiss. He tangled his hands in her long, wet hair, which felt like ribbons of satin as it rushed through his fingers. Killian groaned when her tongue swept along his, seeking him out with the same desperation and urgency. This was what he needed. This woman. Her touch. Her taste. How on earth could this be wrong?

Your brother’s been really nice.” I frowned. She explained further, “He told me he’s there for me, too. Or you. He said you’re all prickly on the outside, but that’s to keep others from hurting your soft gooey inside. You’re all bark, but no bite.” “Negative. There’s bite. A lot of bite. I’m a rabid dog, actually.” She laughed, wiping at her eyes again. “He said you’d say that but that I shouldn’t believe you. You might snarl at him, but not me, not if I’m hurting.” I kicked at the ground. Why did I feel like crying?

From harsh and shrill and clamant, the voices grew blurred and inarticulate. Bad sentences were helped out by worse gestures, and at one table, Scabius could only express himself with his napkin, after the manner of Sir Jolly Jumble in the first part of the Soldier’s Fortune of Otway. Basalissa and Lysistrata tried to pronounce each other’s names, and became very affectionate in the attempt; and Tala, the tragedian, robed in roomy purple and wearing plume and buskin, rose to his feet and with swaying gestures began to recite one of his favourite parts. He got no further than the first line, but repeated it again and again, with fresh accents and intonations each time, and was only silenced by the approach of the asparagus that was being served by satyrs dressed in white muslin. Clitor and Sodon had a violet struggle over the beautiful Pella, and nearly upset a chandelier. Sophie became very intimate with an empty champagne bottle, swore it had made her enceinte, and ended by having a mock accouchement on the top of the table; and Belamour pretended to be a dog, and pranced from couch to couch on all fours, biting and barking and licking. Mellefont crept about dropping love philtres into glasses. Juventus and Ruella stripped and put on each other’s things, Spelto offered a prize for who ever should come first, and Spelto won it! Tannhäuser, just a little grisé, lay down on the cushions and let Julia do whatever she liked.

So many people never seemed to think about the consequences of their everyday actions. And then a witch on her broom would have to set out from her bed in the rain in the dead of night because of "I only" and its little friends "I didn't know" and "It's not my fault." "I only wanted to see if the copper was hot . . . " "I didn't know a boiling pot was dangerous . . . " "It's not my fault--no one told me dogs that bark might also bite." And her favorite, "I didn't know it would go off bang"--when it said "goes bang" on the box it came in. That had been when little Ted Cooper had put an explosive banger (another tiny clue) into the carcass of a chicken after his mum's birthday party and nearly killed everybody around the table.

There is an inherent, humbling cruelty to learning how to run white water. In most other so-called "adrenaline" sports—skiing, surfing and rock climbing come to mind—one attains mastery, or the illusion of it, only after long apprenticeship, after enduring falls and tumbles, the fatigue of training previously unused muscles, the discipline of developing a new and initially awkward set of skills. Running white water is fundamentally different. With a little luck one is immediately able to travel long distances, often at great speeds, with only a rudimentary command of the sport's essential skills and about as much physical stamina as it takes to ride a bicycle downhill. At the beginning, at least, white-water adrenaline comes cheap. It's the river doing the work, of course, but like a teenager with a hot car, one forgets what the true power source is. Arrogance reigns. The river seems all smoke and mirrors, lots of bark (you hear it chortling away beneath you, crunching boulders), but not much bite. You think: Let's get on with it! Let's run this damn river! And then maybe the raft hits a drop in the river— say, a short, hidden waterfall. Or maybe a wave reaches up and flicks the boat on its side as easily as a horse swatting flies with its tail. Maybe you're thrown suddenly into the center of the raft, and the floor bounces back and punts you overboard. Maybe you just fall right off the side of the raft so fast you don't realize what's happening. It doesn't matter. The results are the same. The world goes dark. The river— the word hardly does justice to the churning mess enveloping you— the river tumbles you like so much laundry. It punches the air from your lungs. You're helpless. Swimming is a joke. You know for a fact that you are drowning. For the first time you understand the strength of the insouciant monster that has swallowed you. Maybe you travel a hundred feet before you surface (the current is moving that fast). And another hundred feet—just short of a truly fearsome plunge, one that will surely kill you— before you see the rescue lines. You're hauled to shore wearing a sheepish grin and a look in your eye that is equal parts confusion, respect, and raw fear. That is River Lesson Number One. Everyone suffers it. And every time you get the least bit cocky, every time you think you have finally figured out what the river is all about, you suffer it all over again.

Rashid Bey Beydoun, a stylish Shia notable who wore his fez at a rakish angle and seemed free of the timidity of his people, set out to give himself and his sect a place in the city. He built a secondary school and a mosque for his people in West Beirut; he established a philanthropic association. The ambitious politician knew his city. He assembled a group of qabadayat, street toughs, who were ready to do his bidding. Such were the rules of the city: if Basta, the Sunni quarter, had its qabadayat, so would Rashid Beydoun and his people. He gave his men a grand name: talaya, the vanguard. They had more bark than bite, the boys of the talaya. But the timid men and women of the hinterland saw in Beydoun and his men and his school the beginning of their emancipation. It was in the school established by Rashid Bey Beydoun that Abbas was to enroll.

As to Flush, he should thank you too, but at the present moment he is quite absorbed in finding a cool place in this room to lie down in, having sacrificed his usual favorite place at my feet, his head upon them, oppressed by the torrid necessity of a thermometer above 70. To Flopsy’s acquaintance he would aspire gladly, only hoping that Flopsy does not ‘delight to bark and bite,’ like dogs in general, because if he does Flush would as soon be acquainted with a cat, he says, for he does not pretend to be a hero. Poor Flush! ‘the bright summer days on which I am ever likely to take him out for a ramble over hill and meadow’ are never likely to shine! But he follows, or rather leaps into my wheeled chair, and forswears merrier company even now, to be near me. I am a good deal better, it is right to say, and look forward to a possible prospect of being better still, though I may be shut out from climbing the Brocken otherwise than in a vision.

I griped about it at lunch one day to Bill Weist and Dr. Leslie Squier, our visiting psychologists from Reed College. I'd been trying to train one otter to stand on a box, I told them. No problem getting the behavior; as soon as I put the box in the enclosure, the otter rushed over and climbed on top of it. She quickly understood that getting on the box earned her a bite of fish, But. As soon as she got the picture, she began testing the parameters. 'Would you like me lying down on the box? What if I just put three feet on the box? Suppose I hang upside down from the edge of the box? Suppose I stand on it and look under it at the same time? How about if I put my front paws on it and bark?' For twenty minutes she offered me everything imaginable except just getting on the box and standing there. It was infuriating, and strangely exhausting. The otter would eat her fish and then run back to the box and present some new, fantastic variation and look at me expectantly (spitefully, even, I thought) while I struggled once more to decide if what she was doing fit my criteria or not. My psychologist friends flatly refused to believe me; no animal acts like that. If you reinforce a response, you strengthen the chance that the animal will repeat what it was doing when it was reinforced; you don't precipitate some kind of guessing game. So I showed them. We all went down to the otter tank, and I took the other otter and attempted to get it to swim through a small hoop. I put the hoop in the water. The otter swam through it, twice. I reinforced it. Fine. The psychologists nodded. Then the otter did the following, looking up for a reward each time: swam through the hoop and stopped, leaving its tail on the other side. Swam through and caught the hoop with a back foot in passing, and carried it away. Lay in the hoop. Bit the hoop Backed through the hoop. 'See?' I said. 'Otters are natural experimenters.

A bird doesn't need a professor to teach it how to fly. A fish doesn't need a professor to teach it how to swim. A bee doesn't need a professor to teach it how to sting. A termite doesn't need a professor to teach it how to build. A spider doesn't need a professor to teach it how to weave. A cricket doesn't need a professor to teach it how to sing. A parrot doesn't need a professor to teach it how to mimic. A serpent doesn't need a professor to teach it how to bite. A chameleon doesn't need a professor to teach it how to camouflage. A sheep doesn't need a professor to teach it how to follow. A horse doesn't need a professor to teach it how to sprint. A monkey doesn't need a professor to teach it how to steal. A camel doesn't need a professor to teach it how to survive. A dog doesn't need a professor to teach it how to bark. A cheetah doesn't need a professor to teach it how to race. A fox doesn't need a professor to teach it how to scheme. A crocodile doesn't need a professor to teach it how to float. An hyena doesn't need a professor to teach it how to stalk. A panther doesn't need a professor to teach it how to strike. A wolf doesn't need a professor to teach it how to kill. A lion doesn't need a professor to teach it how to hunt.

What the..." Ranulf barked behind her. "Where's the meat? The butter?" Bronwyn smiled. It was going to be a hard few days for everyone at Hunswick,suddenly observing Advent, but it might inspire the new residents to not just enjoy the fruits of everyone's labor,but appreciate and contribute. Turning around,Bronwyn pasted on what she hoped to be an incredulous look and said, "During Advent Fast?Now,my lord, you wouldn't want others to think you a heathen." Ranulf picked up the mug,sniffed the tea with disdain,and put it back down before flopping into one of the hearth chairs. "I know a hell of a lot more about the topic than you.And I could care less about the opinion of others." "I doubt that," Bronwyn murmured, just loud enough for him to hear, "on either point." Ranulf leaned forward and grabbed the plate of fish and potatoes. He took several bites and waved his fork around the platter. "The Church calls for their followers to celebrate the season of Advent the four weeks before Christmas, which is nonsense because I know of no one who rejoices in the idea of starvation and...abstinence." Bronwyn's heartbeat suddenly doubled its pace and she had to fight to remain looking relaxed and unaffected. "I believe humility is a large purpose behind the fast." "And control," Ranulf replied with a grunt. "If I kept such an absurd custom, I and my men would have starved many a year.

So, are you…intrigued…by Stanhope?” “Intrigued by him?” “Indeed. Do you find him…” he paused. “Intriguing?” she teased. He sent her an exasperated look. “Lord Stanhope is a good friend and an even better companion. He is entertaining and interesting and intelligent and full of energy. I can think of few others with whom I would like to spend an afternoon. However, you know my opinion of marriage and all of its trappings. I’m not interested in it. Not with Freddie, nor with anyone else. And he knows that as well as anyone, I should think.” “I rather imagine that he’s not looking for marriage either,” Blackmoor replied drily. “What does that mean?” “Simply that men like Stanhope are not the marrying kind. At the risk of repeating our conversation from last night and engaging in an additional verbal battle, I caution you. I know Stanhope. He’s rarely after something respectable. Which leaves your good reputation in the balance.” “I shan’t repeat our argument, Blackmoor. I will simply remind you that Stanhope and I are friends. We have been for years. Just as you have been, I might remind you. Yes, he’s a rake. Yes, he prides himself on his dastardly reputation. But you and I both know that he’s more bark than bite, and that he is approximately as likely as you are to do damage to either me or my character.” Her tone turned teasing. “If you’re allowed to defend Penelope’s honor, do I not deserve the same chance to defend Freddie?” The noncommittal grunt he released was the closest he would come to admitting that Alex was right in this case, but when she heard it she knew she had won.

Isn't there something in Genesis about not looking back? A stupid glance over my shoulder showed her expression relaxing, glad I wasn't taking anything that couldn't be replaced and glad I didn't destroy anything that couldn't be repaired. "Do you care for me, Georgia?" I asked her. "Tell me you don't and I'm out of your life forever." She stood in the driveway with her arms wrapped around herself like she was freezing. "Andre is on his way." "I didn't ask you about no Andre." "He'll be here in a minute." My head hurt, but I pressed her. "It's a yes-or-no question." "Can we talk when Andre gets back? We can-" "Stop talking about him. I want to know if you love me." "Andre…" She said his name one time too many. For what happened next, she would have to take some of the blame. I asked her a simple question and she refused to give me a simple answer. I turned from her and made a sharp left turn, pounding across the yard, feeling the dry grass crunch under my shoes. Six long strides put me at the base of the massive tree. I touched the rough bark, an instant of reflection, to give Old Hickey the benefit of the doubt. But in reality, a hickory tree was a useless hunk of wood. Tall, and that's all. To break the shell of a hickory nut, you needed a hammer and an act of Congress, and even then you needed a screwdriver to get at the meat, which was about as tasty as a clod of limestone. Nobody would ever mourn a hickory tree except Celestial, and maybe Andre. When I was a boy, so little I couldn't manage much more than a George Washington hatcher, Big Roy taught me how to take down a tree. Bend your knees, swing hard and low, follow up with a straight chop. Celestial was crying like the baby we never had, yelping and mewing with every swing. Believe me when I say that I didn't slow my pace, even though my shoulders burned and my arms strained and quivered. With every blow, wedges of fresh wood flew from the wounded trunk peppering my face with hot bites. "Speak up, Georgia," I shouted, hacking at the thick grey bark, experiencing pleasure and power with each stroke. "I asked you if you loved me.

I believe sometimes people are toxic, and its easier to cut them off completely than to keep them at a distance where they can still bite and bark at you.

run forward and chase Vacuum. I give her my loudest, fiercest bark. Vacuum does not stop. I nip and bite at her, but she keeps going. I chase her around the living room. The three of us run laps until the deafening noise disappears. I stand frozen in the middle of the living room.

Hey ése, word of advice on Brujita there. Her bite is just as bad as her bark. Worse, actually. That's a woman who doesn't need a man to stand in front of her. She needs one who knows when to stand beside her, behind her, or kneel in front of her. ¿Entiendes? You do those things for her, and she'll gift you her submission and loyalty. And that woman is loyal...to a fault.

Hey ése, word of advice on Brujita there. Her bite is just as bad as her bark. Worse, actually. That's a woman who doesn't need a man to stand in front of her. She needs one who knows when to stand beside her, behind her, or kneel in front of her. ¿Entiendes? You do those things for her, and she'll gift you her submission and loyalty. And that woman is loyal...to a fault.

Quit barking and prove your argument with your bite.

When a dog gets within a few feet, before he tries to bite, I'll give him a little poke on the nose, just to see how he reacts. Mike Reaver said. It's not hard, doesn't hurt him. but it does put him back on his feet a little bit. That's what we want. We want to see how he responds to that aggression. If he dives right in and bites, that's awesome. If he stands six inches away from my legs, barking, waiting for me to open up or give him a window of opportunity, that's okay too. but if he backs up twenty feet, that's a problem. That means he's not comfortable with this level of aggression. The poke test may not be a perfect gauge of a dog's spirit, but it can be an effective way to measure a dog's fighting instinct.

Messieurs and Mesdames, I am a student of psychology. All through this case I have looked, not for the bad-tempered man or woman, for bad temper is its own safety valve. He who can bark does not bite. No, I have looked for the good-tempered man, for the man who is patient and self-controlled, for the man who for nine years has played the part of the under dog. There is no strain so great as that which has endured for years, there is no it resentment like that which accumules slowly.

Don’t know if you have any hobbies.” She nodded. “I do. I may have to take a break from it for a bit while I’m out here, but normally when I have a light day on campus, I go to a class . . .” I waited. “It’s . . . pole dancing.” I stopped breathing, but at least I didn’t choke. Nodding, I took a sip of my wine to block my face, which I was pretty sure had turned the shade of a beet. “So, like Flashdance? Welder by day, dancer by night?” I barked out, feeling a stirring in my pants that was wholly inappropriate for my roomie, who’d been talking about diode lasers a minute earlier. She’s a goddamn pole dancer. She chuckled and crossed her arms over her chest as though trying to keep me from picturing her dancing. “Excellent movie reference. But no, that’s not even close to what I do.” It hardly mattered. My brain was stuck. Like a white-hot strobe had blinded me to everything except Sarah wearing lingerie and grinding on a pole under hot lights. For me. Stop picturing it. Fuck! “Cool,” I finally managed to say with a straight face. Like it meant nothing. She nodded. Like it meant nothing. Then she spread some brie cheese on a cracker and took a bite. I choked out an excuse and went to the bathroom to get a grip. This will be okay. It will. It has to be. In the bathroom, I splashed some cold water on my face and took a hard look at myself in the mirror. What was happening? I hadn’t been this jacked up over a woman anytime in the past two years. My emotions had been buried in caverns so deep I felt confident they were gone for good. I was fine with that. It made no sense. Or . . . maybe it did. I’ve always been competitive as fuck. If I’m told I can’t have something, I want it all the more and do anything in my power to make it mine. That had to be what was happening here. It was all in my head. I knew she was off limits, so the competitive motherfucker in me started bucking against that. I just needed to get my head together and think of her like any other human who happened to be using my second bedroom. When I got back to the table, Sarah looked up at me with a thin slice of Parma ham twirled around her fork and put the bit into her mouth. I had no defensible reason to focus on her lips or the soft contour of her jaw while she chewed. She swallowed and smiled at me. “I figured I should get a head start on eating while you were gone. In case you had more questions.” “Good plan. Maybe we should focus on the food for a few minutes, or we could be here all night.” I bit into a slider and closed my eyes at how delicious the slow-roasted meat tasted on the brioche bun. Who needed to cook when someone else could make food that tasted like this? It was how I’d become addicted to takeout and why I rarely ate at home anymore. That, and I spent a lot of time at work. Sarah finished the last of the cheesy bread and wiped her lips gingerly on a napkin before looking right at me with those gorgeous eyes. “This is weird, right? It’s not just me?” I tilted my head, trying to read her expression and decipher her meaning. “Could you be specific? She waved her hands between us. “This. Us. We’re in our thirties and we’re roommates. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had a roommate for about ten years. Does it freak you out a little bit?” Yes, but not for the reasons she meant.

I leaned back in my chair, pulling Roxy closer so that I could steal a moment with her for myself and brushing her hair away from her ear so that I could speak to her alone. She leaned in to listen to me and my grip on her waist shifted so that I could hold her even closer, the fingers of my other hand stroking against the bare skin of her shoulder where I'd smoothed her black hair aside. “Do you want to tell me about what happened in that alley?” I asked, wondering if I really should have been worrying about Nymphs or not. A shiver moved across her skin and I was filled with a protective kind of anger as I felt that echo of her fear. “Is this the part where you laugh at us for falling for some prank you set up?” she asked. “Was that one of your friends back there? Did you get someone to send the messages too?” I was tempted to push her for more information, but Lance and Francesca were already hunting for any signs of a Nymph and I didn't want to fall into the trap of arguing with her again while I was holding her like this. I just wanted to steal this moment from the universe and forget about all the shit that was hanging between us outside of right now. “I don’t need to recruit anyone to do my handy work,” I replied dismissively, dropping the subject. “Maybe I’m concerned for your wellbeing.” She snorted in disbelief, shifting away so that she wasn't pressed against my chest anymore and I fought a sigh at how quickly I'd managed to fuck that up. Though as she was currently still in my arms, I had to think it wasn't a total lost cause yet, not that I had any real idea what I was trying to achieve with her here. The bartender returned and I pulled a roll of auras from my pocket which was more than enough to cover our tab, pressing them into her hand as she finished laying the drinks out for us. We'd been planning to move on after this drink anyway and I was keen to get Roxy and her sister away from the place. Roxy reached out to claim her drink, my gaze moving to her mouth as she lifted the glass to it and tipped the whole thing back, swallowing over and over until every last drop was gone. “There you go,” she announced. “One drink.” She pushed out of my lap so suddenly that for a moment all I could do was blink up at her in confusion before my brain caught up to what was happening and I reached out to pull her back again. But she stepped aside, offering me a mocking smile which made it more than clear how much she disliked me. Darcy smirked as she got to her feet too, not even bothering to touch her drink. “See you later, guys,” she agreed and the two of them turned to walk away. Caleb shot into Roxy's way with his Vampire speed before she could actually escape and I was glad when she cut him a glare just as acidic as the one she'd offered me, even while he tried to throw the pretty boy charm on with his gleaming smile. “I guess your word means shit then?” she demanded as he gave her throat a look which said he was thinking about biting her. “No. I said I won’t bite you tonight and I meant it,” he promised, acting all alluring and pissing me the hell off as she hesitated. “I’m just wondering where you’re going now?” “Dancing,” Roxy replied moving to brush past him, her hands landing on his waist for a moment as she nudged him aside and irritation flared through me at the contact. “You can always join us if you think you can keep up.” My anger grew as she offered him that invitation and I scowled at the two of them openly, wondering why she was so much more willing to fall for his bullshit than she was for mine. Roxy gave Cal a flirtatious look and I ground my teeth before shoving to my feet the moment she was out of sight. My fist slammed into his bicep as he turned to look at me and he barked a laugh as he shoved me in return. "Come on, assholes, if the two of you waste time in a dick measuring contest then we'll lose them before you finish,” Max said.(Darius POV)

You’re not running again,” he growled before pouncing up onto the table. I shrieked, stumbling backwards as he leapt towards me. I threw my shoes at him and they bounced off of his chest making him pause in surprise. He barked a laugh then lunged at me, faster than was humanly possible. He caught my waist and I squealed as he pushed me back against a heavy bookcase which stood along the wall. My hands landed on his shoulders like I was going to push him off of me but I didn’t. “Cheat,” I breathed as my heart pounded. “Only a little,” he admitted. Before I could say anything else, he leaned forward and kissed me. My heart leapt, my skin tingled and my traitorous body gave in to his demand. I was supposed to hate him. I was supposed to be shoving him off of me and slapping him and telling him to stay the hell away from me. I definitely shouldn’t have been pulling him closer, my hands fisting in the material of his shirt, my lips parting to admit his tongue. I could still taste blood from where I’d bitten my lip and he obviously could too, a groan of desire escaping him as I felt a soft tug on my magic from the welt on my lip. Why am I always a sucker for the bad guys? And why does it always feel so good? The heat of his kiss lit me up and I gave up on any thoughts of pushing him away. It wasn’t like I was giving him my heart anyway. Just a kiss... or maybe two... Caleb’s hands slid into my hair and I arched my back, pressing my body against his. His grip tightened in my hair and he dragged my head backwards, breaking our kiss as he moved his mouth down my neck, teasing with the idea of biting me, his fangs flirting with my flesh. My body was alight with his proximity and I moaned, urging him on. I didn’t want this to stop even if I really should have. Caleb withdrew just enough to look into my eyes and the heat I saw in his gaze made my toes curl. “You wanna play another game, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice deep. “What do I get if I win?” I breathed. “I think this game will have two winners,” he promised. My gaze roamed over his face hungrily but then I glanced at the open door. This really wasn’t the best place for us to be making out... or doing anything else either. “I can sort that,” he said, taking one hand off of me and casting magic at the door. A long vine curled across the carpet before pushing the door closed and winding itself around the handle to lock it. An orb of orange light flickered into existence overhead as we were plunged into darkness, casting shadows over his stunning features. He aimed his palm at the ceiling next and I felt a wave of magic wash over me. “Silencing bubble, so we don’t have to hold back,” he explained. I looked into his eyes, wondering if I was really going to do this with him. Heat was curling its way through my body, lighting me up with desire for this beast before me and I decided to act on it before I had the chance to question my decision. (tory)

If you can bark, why bite? Some damages can be irreparable.

Right as Cassian clapped Rhys on the shoulder and prowled toward us. He paused a foot away, and frowned. “Dresses aren’t good for flying, ladies.” Nesta didn’t reply. He lifted a brow. “No barking and biting today?” But Nesta didn’t rise to meet him, her face still drained and sallow. “I’ve never worn pants,” was all she said. I could have sworn concern flashed across Cassian’s features. But he brushed it aside and drawled, “I have no doubt you’d start a riot if you did.

She stirs, and a loud noise disturbs the air.  Something between a snore and snorting like a pig. I bring my fist to my mouth, biting down hard to keep the laughter from exploding out of me. Immediately, I turn and exit the room, struggling immensely in keeping quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a noise like that come out of anybody, let alone someone that looks as cute as Addie does. I’ve tortured and killed a lot of people, and that was… that was unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It’s only when I’m out of the house that I let loose a bark of laughter.

Oh, you think you can sass me, Miss Mason?” I laughed, “What are you gonna do? Punish me? You’re all bark and no bite, Mr. Mason.

I smiled, weakly, and went in for the next rack. Stuntman barked. He got excited when the fridge was open. I never fed him human food, but I think Sloan had been sneaking him pieces of turkey whenever she was here. “Is that my little arch nemesis?” he asked. “That dog better not bite me again.” I pulled on the shelf. It was stuck. “Or what?” “Or he’s going to the pound.” He laughed. He was kidding. But it annoyed me just the same.

Not every dog that barks, bites.

She was like a pit-bull puppy—all bark. God, I hoped she liked to bite, too.

Do you know my name?” “I do.” “Why don’t you ever use it?” He bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away from me as he thought about what to say. “I stole you away, I didn’t meet you. When you meet someone, if they want you to know their name, they give it to you. It’s like a privilege, and you didn’t give me that privilege.” “I named you,” I admitted softly. He jerked his head back to look at me again, and his brow scrunched together. “What?” “Uh, well, I named you. I was always thinking of you as him or he, and I eventually got tired of it.” When I didn’t offer anything more, he leaned forward and put a hand out, palm up. “Well . . . ? What’s the name you gave me?” “Taylor.” In my head, it’d been easy to think of him as Taylor, but now that it was out there, a blush was creeping up my neck and over my cheeks. He barked out a loud laugh and leaned back. “Oh God, not you too? That’s not the first time I’ve gotten that.” I’d been stunned by his laugh, but then joined in with him at his admission. “Well! You look just like him!” “Thanks . . . I guess?” “It’s a compliment, trust me.” His dark eyes met and held mine, and I looked away momentarily to break the connection. When I looked back at him, I cleared my throat and offered a small smile. “Um, my name’s Rachel.” “I know,” he whispered roughly. “And yours?” He seemed to think for a few seconds before flashing me a sad smile. “You can call me Taylor.” My first reaction was disappointment before I realized the danger for him in this situation. He was a criminal, and I could already give a very detailed description to an FBI sketch artist. Knowing his real name would just add to his likelihood of being caught when this was all over. If it was ever over. Biting back the disappointment, I smiled and offered him a hand. He took it carefully, making sure not to touch my nails. “I would say it’s nice, but that probably isn’t the right word. It’s . . . very interesting to meet you, Taylor.” “I’m glad you decided to ‘meet’ me, Rachel.” “Me too.

You really need to learn to behave yourself,” I say. But I can’t bite back a laugh. I just can’t. “‘Jailhouse Rock’? Seriously?” He shrugs, but he’s grinning too. “It seemed appropriate.” I bark out a laugh so loud that I cover my mouth in embarrassment. “It was so inappropriate,” I say.

The last part, she almost barks. She would have made a wonderful poodle — yappy, mean, and inclined to bite.

Forgiveness is not simply the absolving of an enemy, or one who has done us wrong. Forgiveness must encompass all those things which disturb the tranquility of our soul: the barking dog that robs you of sleep, the heat of summer, the cold of winter. Forgive the ingrown toenail, the flea that bites; forgive the cranky child, wrinkles, a forgotten birthday.

A sheep dog has to follow certain rules – it is always behind; it can bark a lot but can’t bite; it cannot lose any sheep; and it should know where it is going.

World history showed us many times that in any country whenever a dog ascended the throne of kingdom, it did nothing but to bark aloud and bite the people!

Better watch out blondie, this chick's bite is worse than her bark. Well, they're both pretty bad anyhow.

This Girl I Knew Glasses, bad bangs, patched blue jeans, creek-stained tennis shoes caked in mud, a father who sells vacuum cleaners, a mother skinny as a nun, a little brother with straw-colored hair and a scowling, confused look in the pews at church: this girl I knew. House at the edge of town, crumbling white stucco. Dog on a chain. Weeds. Wildcat Creek trickling brown and frothy over rocks out back, past an abandoned train trestle and the wreck of an old school bus left to rot. This girl I knew, in whatever room is hers, in that house with its dust-fogged attic windows, its after-dinner hours like onions soft in a pan. Her father sometimes comes for her, runs a hand through her hair. Her mother washes every last stick of silverware, every dish. The night sky presses down on their roof, a long black yawn spiked with stars, bleating crickets. The dog barks once, twice. Outside town, a motorcycle revs its engine: someone bearing down. Then nothing. Sleep. This girl I knew dreams whatever this girl I knew dreams. In the morning it’s back to school, desks, workbooks, an awkwardly held pencil in the cramped claw of a hand. The cigarette and rosewater scent of Ms. Thompson at the blackboard. The flat of Ms. Thompson’s chest, sunburned and freckled, where her sweater makes a V. You should be nice to her, my mother says about this girl I knew. I don’t want to be nice to her, I say to my mother. At recess this girl I knew walks around the playground, alone, talking to herself: elaborate conversations, hand gestures, hysterical laughing. On a dare from the other girls this girl I knew picks a dandelion, pops its head with her thumbnail, sucks the milky stem. I don’t want to be nice to her. Scabbed where she’s scratched them, mosquito bites on her ankles break and bleed. Fuzzy as a peach, the brown splotch of a birthmark on her arm. The way her glasses keep slipping down her nose. The way she pushes them up.

His bark might be loud, but his bite was nonexistent.

I enjoy the underdog because when the bark settles down the bite is all that's left. #PatrenaMiller

Hence it happens that today so many dogs assail this doctrine with their venomous bitings, or at least with barking: for they wish nothing to be lawful for God beyond what their own reason prescribes for themselves. Also they rail at us with as much wantonness as they can; because we, not content with the precepts of the law, which comprise God’s will, say also that the universe is ruled by his secret plans.

Colm was a good sleeper. But if there was one sound at night that should wake him, and any sensible man who loved his family, it was the barking of dogs. The noise was coming from the village. It was not just one or two dogs, but surely every mangy cur and mongrel that lived there. Something was abroad, and in this time of the dying of the year, when fell creatures roamed the countryside as hunger began to bite, it was not likely to be anything good.

she slowly lifted her arms over her head and did an abrupt turn, bending her right knee and turning it in a bit for a Kewpie-doll look. Her next step was to bite the tip end of her index finger and coyly flutter her eyes. Liz didn’t get that far. She stopped cold. There in front of her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, sat Chase. Next to him with a frozen stare so alarming that she thought perhaps he had stopped breathing, was Grandpa Hoole. If lightning had struck her dead at that moment, she would have welcomed it. Liz catapulted to the bathroom as fast as humanly possible and locked the door. She slammed the off button on the tape recorder and collapsed in a heap on the bathroom floor. The television in the next room clicked off. A car started and pulled out of the driveway. One of the dogs barked. The house was quiet. Eventually there was a knock.

You’re so fucking hot and cold,” I bite. “Good,” he barks. “Because there’s not a damn second that goes by where you’re not fucking with my head. You’re the worst thing to ever happen to me. Every day, I regret walking into that bar. I hate myself for falling for your lies and believing you were nothing more than a sad girl. I hate that I allowed myself to be seduced by you. And I hate that I can’t stop, even now.

When a dog stops barking, that's when you should be most afraid of its bite.

Schnauzers,” Priscilla said. “Those awful jumpy dogs that bite you if you look at them.” […] “Give me a retriever,” Priscilla said. She talked rapidly and with absolute certitude. “Or a sheep dog. Not some jittery creature that barks incessantly, and when they’re not barking they’re biting.

My whole adult life, I’d been all bark and no bite. I talked a good game and then I talked myself out of playing the game. I was—and am—tired of it.

Fuck, you’re stubborn,” Adrian said, not an ounce of bite behind the statement. I leveled him with a glare. “You like it.” Adrian barked a laugh. “I didn’t say I didn’t.