Dog Biscuits Quotes

But with dogs, we do have "bad dog." Bad dog exists. "Bad dog! Bad dog! Stole a biscuit, bad dog!" The dog is saying, "Who are you to judge me? You human beings who’ve had genocide, war against people of different creeds, colors, religions, and I stole a biscuit?! Is that a crime? People of the world!" "Well, if you put it that way, I think you’ve got a point. Have another biscuit, sorry.

For the next several minutes nothing much happened, biscuit wise.

I live in a dog biscuit factory with a feral person.

Once upon a time Somebody say to me (This is a dog talkin' now) What is your Conceptual Continuity? Well, I told him right then (Fido said) It should be easy to see The crux of the biscuit Is the Apostrophe(')

I knew a man once who stammered," said Jimmy. "He used to chew dog biscuit while he was speaking. It cured him. Besides being nutritious.

There were five full glasses of wine in front of me, but the wine teacher told us that we were not allowed to drink any of them until after we finished the lesson. I imagine this is how dogs feel when you put a biscuit on their nose and tell them not to eat it. Except I totally stole sips of the wine when the teacher wasn’t looking, because I’m really shitty at being an obedient dog.

Lord Emsworth could conceive of no way in which Freddie could be of value to a dog-biscuit firm, except possibly as a taster.

Biscuit growls. “Take one more step toward my girl, and you’ll lose a foot.” I’m impressed. And I’m jealous of a freaking dog. He’s a hero, and I’m a zero.

The more that you read the more you will know the more you know the more places you'll go

Readers who have owned animals will appreciate how difficult it would be to train a dog to play exclusively in his own yard, to fetch his sweater whenever he sees it is raining outside, or to be generous in sharing his dog biscuits with other dogs. Yet these same people would not even question the feasibility of trying to use reward and punishment to teach their children the same behaviors.

Long before daybreak, they stood before the shadowy outline of a long, low farmhouse. From the barnyard came the challenging bark of a livestock guardian dog. "Knock - hurry," hissed Waclaw. "I have no desire to become a dog biscuit." Jozef's shoulders shook, but he quickly tapped at the wooden door.

Because time is not like space. And when you put something down somewhere, like a protractor or a biscuit, you can have a map in your head to tell you where you have left it, but even if you don't have a map it will still be there because a map is a representation of things that actually exist so you can find the protractor or the biscuits again. And a timetable is a map of time, except that if you don't have a timetable, time isn't there like the landing and the garden and the route to school.

He could probably have persuaded even Cerberus to leave his post and go off in search of a few dog biscuits.

In Port William, more than anyplace else I had been, this religion that scorned the beauty and goodness of this world was a puzzle to me. To begin with, I don’t think anybody believed it. I still don’t think so. Those world-condemning sermons were preached to people who, on Sunday mornings, would be wearing their prettiest clothes. Even the old widows in their dark dresses would be pleasing to look at. By dressing up on the one day when most of them had leisure to do it, they had signified their wish to present themselves to one another and to Heaven looking their best. The people who heard those sermons loved good crops, good gardens, good livestock and work animals and dogs; they loved flowers and the shade of trees, and laughter and music; some of them could make you a fair speech on the pleasures of a good drink of water or a patch of wild raspberries. While the wickedness of the flesh was preached from the pulpit, the young husbands and wives and the courting couples sat thigh to thigh, full of yearning and joy, and the old people thought of the beauty of the children. And when church was over they would go home to Heavenly dinners of fried chicken, it might be, and creamed new potatoes and hot biscuits and butter and cherry pie and sweet milk and buttermilk. And the preacher and his family would always be invited to eat with somebody and they would always go, and the preacher, having just foresworn on behalf of everybody the joys of the flesh, would eat with unconsecrated relish.

Movement turns dead dogs into maggots and daisies, and flour butter sugar an egg and a tablespoon of milk into Abernethy biscuits, and spermatozoa and ovaries into fishy little plants growing babyward if we take no care to stop them.

Watching the Archer brothers eat was like watching a twister blow through the room. Meredith sat with her elbows tucked close to her side, afraid to do more than occasionally raise her fork to her mouth for fear of being rammed by a reaching arm or thumped by a tossed biscuit. The venison steak was overdone, the beans gluey, and the biscuits were dry as unbuttered toast, yet the Archers attacked their food like a pack of dogs fighting over a fresh kill. No one spoke. They just ate.

Even if he’s been up late partying, he always smells great, like an artisan loaf baked with walnuts and figs (‘Kit smells so millennial,’ Clare said once, which was almost certainly a criticism of me and my Gen X smell of, I don’t know, stale dog biscuits).

Nothing is as it was before, after the screen has gone to black. Darkness lies on the soul. To use Beckett's phrase, "what cowers behind it begins to seep through." With her new shopping cart Hekabe, queen of Troy, will be prowling the aisled for dog biscuits.

I had come a long way from a guy who had worked in slaughterhouses, who had crossed the country with a railroad track gang, who had worked in a dog biscuit factory, who had slept on park benches, who had worked the nickel and dime jobs in a dozen cities across the nation.

If Charley hadn’t shaken and bounced and said “Ftt,” I might have forgotten that every night he gets two dog biscuits and a walk to clear his head. I put on clean clothes and went out with him into the star-raddled night. And the Aurora Borealis was out. I’ve seen it only a few times in my life. It hung and moved with majesty in folds like an infinite traveler upstage in an infinite theater. In colors of rose and lavender and purple it moved and pulsed against the night, and the frost-sharpened stars shone through it. What a thing to see at a time when I needed it so badly!

3. If you want love and companionship, buy a dog.

Bioalchemic Products specifically does not warrant, guarantee, imply or make any representations as to its merchantability for any particular purpose and furthermore shall have no liability for or responsibility to you or any other person, entity or deity with respect of any loss or damage whatsoever caused by this device or object or by any attempts to destroy it by hammering it against a wall or dropping it into a deep well or any other means whatsoever and moreover asserts that you indicate your acceptance of this agreement or any other agreement that may be substituted at any time by coming within five miles of the product or observing it through large telescopes or by any other means because you are such an easily cowed moron who will happily accept arrogant and unilateral conditions on a piece of highly priced garbage that you would not dream of accepting on a bag of dog biscuits and is used solely at your own risk.

The dog on the cover of this book—let’s call her Maggie—is a role model for those of us who want to make better decisions. Maggie could have devoured the biscuit resting on her snout in the blink of an eye. Instead, she is holding back, showing us she can keep her instincts and emotions in check, delaying the pleasure of the snack she can smell all too well. Although this book is mostly about human beings, not animals, its central point is that we can learn a lot from Maggie.

Because time is not like space. And when you put something down somewhere, like a protractor or a biscuit, you can have a map in your head to tell you where you have left it, but even if you don't have a map it will still be there because a map is a representation of things that actually exist so you can find the protractor or the biscuit again. And a timetable is a map of time, except that if you don't have a timetable time is not there like the landing and the garden and the route to school. Because time is only the relationship between the way different things change, like the earth going round the sun and atoms vibrating and clocks ticking and day and night and waking up and going to sleep, and it is like west or nor-nor-east, which won't exist when the earth stops existing and falls into the sun because it is only a relationship between the North Pole and the South Pole and everywhere else, like Mogadishu and Sunderland and Canberra. And it isn't a fixed relationship like the relationship between our house and Mrs. Shears's house, or like the relationship between 7 and 865, but it depends on how fast you are going relative to a specific point. And if you go off in a spaceship and you travel near the speed of light, you may come back and find that all your family is dead and you are still young and it will be the future but your clock will say that you have only been away for a few days or months. And because nothing can travel faster than the speed of light, this means that we can only know about a fraction of the things that go on in the universe,

He will lunch with you at your flat tomorrow at one-thirty. Please remember that he drinks no wine, strongly disapproves of smoking, and can only eat the simplest food, owing to an impaired digestion. Do not offer him coffee, for he considers it the root of half the nerve-trouble in the world." "I should think a dog-biscuit and a glass of water would about meet the case, what?" "Bertie!" "Oh, all right. Merely persiflage." "Now it is precisely that sort of idiotic remark that would be calculated to arouse Sir Roderick's worst suspicions.

Being a Negro means showing your best face to the white man every day. You know his wants, his needs, and watch him proper. But he don’t know your wants. He don’t know your needs or feelings or what’s inside you, for you ain’t equal to him in no measure. You just a nigger to him. A thing: like a dog or a shovel or a horse. Your needs and wants got no track, whether you is a girl or a boy, a woman or a man, or shy, or fat, or don’t eat biscuits, or can’t suffer the change of weather easily. What difference do it make? None to him, for you is living on the bottom rail.

Being a Negro means showing your best face to the white man every day. You know his wants, his needs, and watch him prosper. But he don't know your wants. He don't know your needs or feelings or what's inside you, for you ain't equal to him in no measure. You just a n****r to him. A thing: like a dog or a shovel or a horse. Your needs and wants got no track, whether you is a girl or a boy, a woman or a man, or shy, or fat, or don't eat biscuits, or can't suffer the change of weather easily. What difference do it make? None to him, for you is living on the bottom rail.

And she could be depressed if she wanted to be, she could sit and watch Dogs with Jobs on the National Geographic Channel and eat her way through a packet of chocolate bourbon biscuits if she felt like it because nobody cared about her. In fact, she could sit there all day, from Barney and Friends to Porn Babes Laid Bare, with hours of the Landscape Channel in between, and eat the contents of an entire biscuit factory until she was an obese, earthbound balloon whose dead and bloated body would have to be hydraulically lifted from the house by a fire crew because nobody cared.

That went well," Christina murmured to him. "Pffaww," he agreed. "They're a pair! They don't like anything. They don't even like the dachshund. Who doesn't like dachshunds? They're little parcels of dog-shaped goodness. I've known Jalabite Hegemon ships give up conquest and start little farmsteads just so they can have happy dachshunds. Everyone likes dachshunds, everywhere in the universe. Well, except on Bithomorency. People there got into a war with a refugee column of evolutionarily advanced dachshund supersoldiers fleeing the destruction of their homeworld. The wire-haired marines took out an entire town - two hundred thousand dead. And it was a tragic misunderstanding. The dachshunds only stopped to ask for some biscuits, automated defence systems fired on them. There's a lesson: never give control of your space weapons to an unsupervised machine." He shrugged, and she found herself nodding: schoolboy error.

Jumpin’ and Mabel had to wait for the verdict outside among the palmettos and saw grass of the square, along with the few other blacks. Just as they spread colorful quilts on the ground and unpacked biscuits and sausage from paper bags, a rain shower sent them grabbing things and running for cover under the overhang of the Sing Oil. Mr. Lane shouted that they had to wait outside—a fact they’d known for a hundred years—and not to get in the way of any customers. Some whites crowded in the diner or the Dog-Gone for coffee, and others clustered in the street beneath bright umbrellas. Kids splashed in sudden puddles and ate Cracker Jacks, expecting a parade.

What were they doing now, at Miss Lark’s? she wondered. Playing with Miss Lark’s dogs, perhaps, and listening to Miss Lark telling them that Andrew had a wonderful pedigree but that Willoughby was half an Airedale and half a Retriever and the worst half of both. And presently they would all, even the dogs, have chocolate biscuits and walnut cake for tea.

When you lose someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It's the scar you feel for, the flaw you can't stop seeing. It's the tender place that won't bear weight. It's a void... When you lose someone, you see them everywhere in a hundred different ways. I will think of her when I go to an art museum, or a dog park. On a blank canvas. When I eat a buttermilk biscuit.

The boy was tied up under the table, scrabbling his way through an empty packet of biscuits, licking his fingers to gather the crumbs.The kitchen was freezing; Tina could see the warmth of her breath in the air. It got like that sometimes in winter. The cold got trapped inside.Her first glance had made the boy a dog, just a mongrel tied up to the table leg, but a second glance told the truth. People saw what they wanted to see. Tina hadn’t wanted to see the boy. She thought she had perfected the art of tunnel vision. There were a lot of things she didn’t want to see.But she saw everything in the kitchen, everything.She felt it too. The despair in the air had a familiar feel. Hopeless defeat. It came off the boy in waves and she had to hold on tight to prevent it knocking her over.

So few women made it to the top of the tree and for every one of them who understood the importance of solidarity, there was one ready with an axe to chop any other contender off at the knees. It wasn’t just lonely at the top. Sometimes it was lonely all the way from the ground up. She held her arms out at her sides and gave her hands and wrists a good shake. The physical action made her feel as if she’d shucked off the encounter with the Dog Biscuit. She knew it wasn’t that simple and that it would return to plague her later, but for now, she’d parked those complicated emotions. She was an investigator; time she did some investigating. Jason was out in the field trying to track down camper van records from 1995. The least she could do was try to come at the case from a different angle.

Language is a traitor, a double agent who sleeps across borders without warning in the dead of night. It is a heavy snowfall in a foreign country, which hides the shapes and contours of reality beneath a cloak of nebulous whiteness. It is a crippled dog, never quite able to perform the tricks we ask of it. It is a ginger biscuit, dunked for too long in the tea of our expectations, crumbling and dissolving into nothingness. It is a lost continent.

Rick shuffled through the cards again. “Where is the tallest mountain on earth?” Lydia put her hand over her eyes so she could concentrate. “You said tallest, not highest elevation, so it can’t be Everest.” She made some thinking noises that caused the dogs to stir. The cat started making biscuits on her stomach. She could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. Finally, Rick said, “Think ukulele.” She peeked through her fingers. “Hawaii?” “Mauna Kea.

Because time is not like space. And when you put something down somewhere, like protractor or a biscuit, you can have a map in your head to tell you where you have left it, but even if you don't have a map it will still be there because a map is representation of things that actually exist so you can find the protractor or the biscuit again. And a timetable is map of time, except that if you don't have timetable time is not there like the landing and the garden and the route to school. Because time is only the relationship between the way different things change, like the earth going round the sun and atoms vibrating and clocks ticking and day and night and waking up and going to sleep, and it's like west or nor-nor-east wich won't exist when the earth stops existing and falls into the sun because it is only a relationship between the North Pole and the South Pole and everywhere else, like Mogadishu and Sunderland and Canberra.

Tell me, Mar,” she would say (and here it must be explained, that when she called him by the first syllable of his first name, she was in a dreamy, amorous, acquiescent mood, domestic, languid a little, as if spiced logs were burning, and it was evening, yet not time to dress, and a thought wet perhaps outside, enough to make the leaves glisten, but a nightingale might be singing even so among the azaleas, two or three dogs barking at distant farms, a cock crowing—all of which the reader should imagine in her voice)—“Tell me, Mar,” she would say, “about Cape Horn.” Then Shelmerdine would make a little model on the ground of the Cape with twigs and dead leaves and an empty snail shell or two. “Here’s the north,” he would say. “There’s the south. The wind’s coming from hereabouts. Now the Brig is sailing due west; we’ve just lowered the top-boom mizzen; and so you see—here, where this bit of grass is, she enters the current which you’ll find marked—where’s my map and compasses, Bo’sun?—Ah! thanks, that’ll do, where the snail shell is. The current catches her on the starboard side, so we must rig the jib boom or we shall be carried to the larboard, which is where that beech leaf is,—for you must understand my dear—” and so he would go on, and she would listen to every word; interpreting them rightly, so as to see, that is to say, without his having to tell her, the phosphorescence on the waves, the icicles clanking in the shrouds; how he went to the top of the mast in a gale; there reflected on the destiny of man; came down again; had a whisky and soda; went on shore; was trapped by a black woman; repented; reasoned it out; read Pascal; determined to write philosophy; bought a monkey; debated the true end of life; decided in favour of Cape Horn, and so on. All this and a thousand other things she understood him to say and so when she replied, Yes, negresses are seductive, aren’t they? he having told her that the supply of biscuits now gave out, he was surprised and delighted to find how well she had taken his meaning. “Are you positive you aren’t a man?” he would ask anxiously, and she would echo, “Can it be possible you’re not a woman?” and then they must put it to the proof without more ado.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

Come here, you flea-ridden hair wad. You’ll have all the sugar biscuits you want, if you’ll give your new toy to me.” He whistled softly and clicked. But the blandishments did not work. Dodger merely regarded him with bright eyes and stayed at the threshold, clutching the vial in his tiny paws. “Give him one of your garters,” Leo said, still staring at the ferret. “I beg your pardon?” Miss Marks asked frostily. “You heard me. Take off a garter and offer it to him as a trade. Otherwise we’ll be chasing this damned animal all through the house. And I doubt Rohan will appreciate the delay.” The governess gave Leo a long-suffering glance. “Only for Mr. Rohan’s sake would I consent to this. Turn your back.” “For God’s sake, Marks, do you think anyone really wants a glance at those dried-up matchsticks you call legs?” But Leo complied, facing the opposite direction. He heard a great deal of rustling as Miss Marks sat on a bedroom chair and lifted her skirts. It just so happened that Leo was positioned near a full-length looking glass, the oval cheval style that tilted up or down to adjust one’s reflection. And he had an excellent view of Miss Marks in the chair. And the oddest thing happened—he got a flash of an astonishingly pretty leg. He blinked in bemusement, and then the skirts were dropped. “Here,” Miss Marks said gruffly, and tossed it in Leo’s direction. Turning, he managed to catch it in midair. Dodger surveyed them both with beady-eyed interest. Leo twirled the garter enticingly on his finger. “Have a look, Dodger. Blue silk with lace trim. Do all governesses anchor their stockings in such a delightful fashion? Perhaps those rumors about your unseemly past are true, Marks.” “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, my lord.” Dodger’s little head bobbed as it followed every movement of the garter. Fitting the vial in his mouth, the ferret carried it like a miniature dog, loping up to Leo with maddening slowness. “This is a trade, old fellow,” Leo told him. “You can’t have something for nothing.” Carefully Dodger set down the vial and reached for the garter. Leo simultaneously gave him the frilly circlet and snatched the vial.

Sometimes, I find myself thinking of Olivia’s dog – little Jack Russell, cute as can be. He spends his days in a tranquil slumber. I watch him, enviously, just lying there. And I feel jealous. Jealous that he’s not burdened by despair. Jealous that a biscuit makes him happy. That he can just lie in bed, sleep all day. That his life expectancy is 14 years instead of 76. That his life is not mine. And then I realise just how fucked my life is. I’m jealous of a dog, for fuck’s sake.

Watch wagged his tail. Benny looked down at him. “No, Watch,” he said. “Chocolate is not one of your favorite things. Chocolate is very bad for dogs, remember? You like dog biscuits

Nothing is as it was before, after the screen has gone to black. Darkness lies on the soul. To use Beckett's phrase, "what cowers behind it begins to seep through." With her new shopping cart Hekabe, queen of Troy, will be prowling the aisle for dog biscuits.

I like beautiful things that are durable because I have three kids and three dogs. Life is messy. Really, really, really messy. But I like the mess. I think that’s a southern thing—recognizing that kids and animals are going to come tromping through spaces and it’s important to plan for it.

Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” said Hagrid. A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter. “Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.” “You have his key, sir?” “Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals. “Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key. The goblin looked at it closely.

I hacked an old Crock-Pot and turned it into a sous vide machine, and did a turkey breast, and then seared the skin on the stovetop, so it is totally crispy, but the meat is BEYOND juicy. And the stuffing is a combination of homemade corn bread, homemade buttermilk biscuits, and brioche, with sage and thyme and celery and onion and shallot. And I tried the Robuchon Pommes Puree, and thought that there was no way to put THAT much butter into that much potato, but holy moley is it amazeballs! And I did a butternut squash soup with fried ginger and almond cake with apple compote." All the bustle has roused Volnay, who wanders over to greet Benji, and receives a dog biscuit for her trouble from Eloise. "Honey, breathe a little," I say, laughing. "It's just... I... I mean... THANKSGIVING!" he says, which cracks us all up.

Ulf had said nothing, but the vet’s comment, a casual, throwaway observation, started him thinking. Why shouldn’t dogs lip-read? Dogs understood language—to a limited extent. Dogs knew single words—walkies, biscuits, bad, sit, and so on—although their grasp of grammar was solipsistic. All verbs, in a dog’s mind, are governed by a pronoun, and that pronoun refers to themselves. So the verb sit must always be read as me sit. Adjectives and nouns, too, are similarly qualified: bad is me bad, and biscuits is me biscuits. And if they understood words, even imperfectly, and even in this remarkably self-centred way, then surely they could understand the equivalent sign—a gesture or lip position that accompanied the word?

The people who heard those sermons loved good crops, good gardens, good livestock and work animals and dogs; they loved flowers and the shade of trees, and laughter and music; some of them could make you a fair speech on the pleasures of a good drink of water or a patch of wild raspberries. While the wickedness of the flesh was preached from the pulpit, the young husbands and wives and the courting couples sat thigh to thigh, full of yearning and joy, and the old people thought of the beauty of the children. And when church was over they would go home to Heavenly dinners of fried chicken, it might be, and creamed new potatoes and creamed new peas and hot biscuits and butter and cherry pie and sweet milk and buttermilk. And the preacher and his family would always be invited to eat with somebody and they would always go, and the preacher, having just foresworn on behalf of everybody

tend to side with the Monks of New Skete on the question of the canine desire to please: dogs, they say, care a lot less about pleasing humans than they care about pleasing themselves; if acting in a way that pleases you means something good will happen to them—they’ll get a biscuit, a reward, a pat on the back—they’re likely to be motivated to carry out the task, but their agenda is not necessarily driven by the pure and selfless wish to make you happy.

You two, uh . . . you’re getting along okay, are you?” he said, trying to make out shapes in the darkness. “Oh, fine, sir. Fine.” So her turning into a wolf occasionally doesn’t worry you? Vimes couldn’t bring himself to say it. “No . . . problems, then?” “Oh, not really, sir. She buys her own dog biscuits and she’s got her own flap in the door. When it’s full moon I don’t really get involved.

I heard her earlier. She’s probably enjoying herself. She doesn’t really get much of a chance to let herself go in Ankh-Morpork.” “Er . . . no . . .” Vimes had a mental picture of a werewolf letting go. But surely, Angua wouldn’t— “You two, uh . . . you’re getting along okay, are you?” he said, trying to make out shapes in the darkness. “Oh, fine, sir. Fine.” So her turning into a wolf occasionally doesn’t worry you? Vimes couldn’t bring himself to say it. “No . . . problems, then?” “Oh, not really, sir. She buys her own dog biscuits and she’s got her own flap in the door. When it’s full moon I don’t really get involved.

But the wholly-est bit of god is movement, because it keeps stirring things to make new ones. Movement turns dead dogs into maggots and daisies, and flour butter sugar an egg and a tablespoonful of milk into Abernethy biscuits,¹⁸ and spermatozoa and ovaries into fishy little plants growing babyward if we take no care to stop them. And movement causes pain when solid bodies knock into living ones or living ones knock each other, so to stop us getting knocked dead before life wears us out we have generated developed evolved acquired invented matured gained and grown eyes and brains to let us see knocks coming and dodge them. And how beautifully the whole godly clamjamfrie works!

GEORGE Man-Walking held a sweet feeling for Mary Trout and her dog, Reno. Three weeks on the road, he'd come by, bring her trinkets, keepsakes from his route, a red thermometer, odd buttons, a pin made of acorns, soap. He'd have a bag for Reno, too, some chop bones, bits of biscuit. Mary died one summer and George took Reno home, kept bringing trinkets to the dog, filled its little house with stuff until it ran away.

Son of a biscuit-eatin’ dog licker!

What's your name, big guy?" Carden asked. Blue let out something between a bark and a howl that sounded just like," Bluuuue." "Good boy," Carden said, and gave Blue the dog biscuit. Blue took it in his mouth and crunched it into pieces, eating it bit by bit instead of gobbling. That's all it took for Lindsey to fall head-over-heels for Blue. His owner wasn't too bad either.

What the devil are you eating?” Leo, Lord Ramsay, stood in the family parlor at Ramsay House, viewing his dark-haired twins, Edward and Emmaline, who were playing on the carpeted floor. His wife, Catherine, who was helping the babies to build block towers, looked up with a smile. “They’re eating biscuits.” “These?” Leo glanced at a bowl of little brown biscuits that had been placed on a table. “They look revoltingly similar to the ones Beatrix has been feeding the dog.” “That’s because they are.” “They’re…Good God, Cat! What can you be thinking?” Lowering to his haunches, Leo tried to pry a sodden biscuit away from Edward. Leo’s efforts were met with an indignant squall. “Mine!” Edward cried, clutching the biscuit more tightly. “Let him have it,” Catherine protested. “The twins are teething, and the biscuits are very hard. There’s nothing harmful in them.” “How do you know that?” “Beatrix made them.” “Beatrix doesn’t cook. To my knowledge, she can barely butter her bread.” “I don’t cook for people,” Beatrix said cheerfully, coming into the parlor with Albert padding after her. “But I do for dogs.” “Naturally.” Leo took one of the brown lumps from the bowl, examining it closely. “Would you care to reveal the ingredients of these disgusting objects?” “Oats, honey, eggs…they’re very nourishing.” As if to underscore the point, Catherine’s pet ferret, Dodger, streaked up to Leo, took the biscuit from him, and slithered beneath a nearby chair. Catherine laughed low in her throat as she saw Leo’s expression. “They’re made of the same stuff as teething biscuits, my lord.” “Very well,” Leo said darkly. “But if the twins start barking and burying their toys, I’ll know whom to blame.” He lowered to the floor beside his daughter. Emmaline gave him a wet grin and pushed her own sodden biscuit toward his mouth. “Here, Papa.” “No, thank you, darling.” Becoming aware of Albert nosing at his shoulder, Leo turned to pet him. “Is this a dog or a street broom?” “It’s Albert,” Beatrix replied.

Get a dog biscuit out of that cabinet there,” Mr. Jones told Denny. Denny found a box of Milk-Bones and took one out. Mr. Jones was picking up his tools. Denny held the bone out to him. “Give it to him, not me,” said Mr. Jones. “Do I look like I want a Milk-Bone?

Dear Prudence, I’m sitting in this dusty tent, trying to think of something eloquent to write. I’m at wit’s end. You deserve beautiful words, but all I have left are these: I think of you constantly. I think of this letter in your hand and the scent of perfume on your wrist. I want silence and clear air, and a bed with a soft white pillow… Beatrix felt her eyebrows lifting, and a quick rise of heat beneath the high collar of her dress. She paused and glanced at Prudence. “You find this boring?” she asked mildly, while her blush spread like spilled wine on linen. “The beginning is the only good part,” Prudence said. “Go on.” …Two days ago in our march down the coast to Sebastopol, we fought the Russians at the Alma River. I’m told it was a victory for our side. It doesn’t feel like one. We’ve lost at least two thirds of our regiment’s officers, and a quarter of the noncommissioned men. Yesterday we dug graves. They call the final tally of dead and wounded the “butcher’s bill.” Three hundred and sixty British dead so far, and more as soldiers succumb to their wounds. One of the fallen, Captain Brighton, brought a rough terrier named Albert, who is undoubtedly the most badly behaved canine in existence. After Brighton was lowered into the ground, the dog sat by his grave and whined for hours, and tried to bite anyone who came near. I made the mistake of offering him a portion of a biscuit, and now the benighted creature follows me everywhere. At this moment he is sitting in my tent, staring at me with half-crazed eyes. The whining rarely stops. Whenever I get near, he tries to sink his teeth into my arm. I want to shoot him, but I’m too tired of killing. Families are grieving for the lives I’ve taken. Sons, brothers, fathers. I’ve earned a place in hell for the things I’ve done, and the war’s barely started. I’m changing, and not for the better. The man you knew is gone for good, and I fear you may not like his replacement nearly so well. The smell of death, Pru…it’s everywhere. The battlefield is strewn with pieces of bodies, clothes, soles of boots. Imagine an explosion that could tear the soles from your shoes. They say that after a battle, wildflowers are more abundant the next season--the ground is so churned and torn, it gives the new seeds room to take root. I want to grieve, but there is no place for it. No time. I have to put the feelings away somewhere. Is there still some peaceful place in the world? Please write to me. Tell me about some bit of needlework you’re working on, or your favorite song. Is it raining in Stony Cross? Have the leaves begun to change color? Yours, Christopher Phelan

Later, in one of the few times he attended church as an adult, he discovered that it was about much more than a piece of fruit. Knowledge of evil is contaminating, and in this new manifestation, it makes him pull back from her hug. ‘Poppy?’ Small eddies of anxiety ripple over her face. ‘Poppy. Richie Dog and me have made you breakfast . . .’ Her voice trails off, uncertain. With some effort, George rallies. ‘How’s that for luck? I’m hungry as a lion.’ He waggles a finger at Richie. ‘I hope you aren’t giving me dog biscuits for breakfast, young pup.’ Rory giggles. It’s a sign she feels safe, that she hasn’t done anything wrong after all. ‘You’re so funny, Poppy.’ In the kitchen, George spoons up the cornflakes from their inundation of milk and yums at his undercooked toast. ‘I didn’t make the tea,’ she says. ‘Richie and me are a bit young for boiling water.’ She’s so serious, so anxious to be responsible. George grins. ‘Very wise. I’ll make the tea and you can have a cup, just for making such a nice breakfast.’ He pours her a milky tea and stirs in two teaspoons of sugar. Rory’s eyes gleam. This is an unexpected treat. ‘What about Richie? He helped, too.’ ‘I might share my toast with him,’ George says, tearing off a substantial chunk. He chuckles to himself as the dog wolfs down his portion. Talk about killing two birds with one stone. ‘Best breakfast I’ve had in years,’ he says, swigging the last of

She was crying because she was far from home, and who among us has never wanted to do that? There need be no other reason; just that. We cry for home, and for flowers on tables, and biscuits in little tins, and for mother; and we feel embarrassed, and foolish too, that we should be crying for such things; but we should not feel that way because all of us, in a sense, have strayed from home, and wish to return.

few feet from them, a bag of kibble had fallen off the pile and split open. Biscuit gave a bark of delight and pounced on the bag. In less than a minute, the bag was empty. Biscuit gave a burp and a metallic voice floated out from his stomach: “You have no more messages.

If you think dogs can't count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then give him only two of them." (Phil Pastoret)

Hey, so I know I said that Puddin' wouldn't be coming to the daycare anymore, but I was hoping you hadn't given his spot away yet," Thad said. Her dog began to bark and twirl around like a chunky ballerina the minute he said Puddin's name. "Duchess, sit," Ashanti ordered. The dog immediately plopped its butt on the floor. Thad should not have found her commanding tone sexy, but apparently that's where his brain wanted to take everything when it came to Ashanti Wright. Impressive. That's what it was. He couldn't get Puddin' to sit on command if he promised that little asshole every dog biscuit in New Orleans.

Leslie stood in the center of the stage with Baguette and Cannoli, motioning for the dachshunds to twirl. The audience went wild. Little did they know, they too could get dogs to twirl if they hid a chicken-flavored dog biscuit in each hand.

I want to have those little hot dogs wrapped in biscuit dough.

We’re going to tea at Lady Penny’s house,” Daisy said. “We’ve been two weeks in a row now. She’s Miss Mountbatten’s friend, and she has a hedgehog. And an otter named Hubert, and a goat named Marigold, and a two-legged dog named Bixby, and a heap of other animals.” “Literally,” Rosamund interjected. “Literally a heap.” “Today, I’m allowed to pet the hedgehog if I remember my manners. Also, Miss Teague bakes the scrummiest biscuits.

Today is Tuesday the 15th of August and Grandad Wilcox is at home in his bungalow with his dog Bruno, the town of Little Chedderton which was swarming with the media as gone back to its usual quiet self. Grandad Wilcox was watching a gardening programme on TV when he heared somebody knocking at the front door, he told Bruno to stay in his dog bed and then went to answer the door, when he opened the door he saw two men and a woman who were smartly dressed, the woman spoke " Hello Mr Wilcox, were are from the British department of space exploration " Grandad Wilcox invited the agents into his home and offered them each a drink and biscuits to which one of the male agents said OK and after about 10 minutes Grandad came into the living room with a tray of drinks and a large selection of biscuits.

Lula is two inches shorter than me and has a lot more volume. Much of the volume is in boobs and booty, giving her a voluptuousness that would be hard to duplicate with surgery. Lula achieved her voluptuousness the old-fashioned way. Pork chops, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, tubs of mac and cheese and potato salad, barbecue ribs, chili hot dogs. Her hair was magenta today. Her skin is polished mahogany. Her dress and five-inch stiletto heels are from her Saturday night ’ho collection and two sizes too small. The overall effect is spectacular, as usual. I

Wake the Lake Let's go to the lake Put on the dog -ringing wake Pin a worm, thread a cricket Tip the thermos and bite a biscuit Prepare to pile on some briquette Sleeping clouds upon the ground Lifting praise, dawn follow heavenbound Belted kingfisher crying out tenor Lucky jig be it whirly or spinner Never know what's for dinner Cast the line and bounce a bobber Joyful mind in tune by buzzing dauber Reel clicking distance measure a prize won Fins splash, raining droplets pluck forth fun Surround the fire regaling epics to stun

as out of place as a dog biscuit on a communion plate,

Now close your eyes and eat it as quickly as you can, preferably without letting any of it touch a taste bud. Try to digest. Best served with one dog biscuit per person.

I have clients that feel like family, I make far more money than I've got a right to, considering the workload, and I have amazing benefits. What could be bad?" "I suppose I meant if you are satisfied creatively." I'd never really thought about that. The Farbers give me free rein, but they have a repertoire of my dishes that they love and want to have regularly in the rotation, and everything has to be kid friendly; even if we are talking about kids with precocious tastes, they are still kids. Lawrence is easy: breakfasts, lunches, and healthy snacks for his days; he eats most dinners out with friends, or stays home with red wine and popcorn, swearing that Olivia Pope stole the idea from him. And I'm also in charge of home-cooked meals for Philippe and Liagre, his corgis, who like ground chicken and rice with carrots, and home-baked peanut butter dog biscuits. Simca was a gift from him, four years ago. She was a post-Christmas rescue puppy, one of those gifts that a family was unprepared for, who got left at a local shelter where Lawrence volunteers. He couldn't resist her, but knew that Philippe and Liagre barely tolerate each other, and he couldn't imagine bringing a female of any species into their manly abode. Luckiest thing that ever happened to me, frankly. She's the best pup ever. I named her Simca because it was Julia Child's nickname for her coauthor Simone Beck. She is, as the other Eloise, my own namesake, would say, my mostly companion. Lawrence's dinner parties are fun to do- he always has a cool group of interesting people, occasionally famous ones- but he is pretty old-school, so there isn't a ton of creativity in those menus, lots of chateaubriand and poached salmon with the usual canapés and accompaniments.

On one side of the desk sits a bowl of dog biscuits for employees who bring their dogs to the office (a rare perk in a company that makes employees pay for parking and snacks).

good ideas. Junior was there, saying hi to people and getting petted like crazy. We also had homemade dog biscuits from Grandma Dotty to give away. And I drew the T-shirt designs myself. “Step right up! Check it out!” Flip kept saying. Georgia was signing up customers. And I helped Magic Murray

At first, I planned to do just a big pot of son-of-a-bitch stew with coleslaw and cornbread, but when I thought about dogs running around the house and thirteen people trying to deal with bowls of soupy stew sloshing all over the place, I realized the idea was stupid. Then I remembered an extra turkey breast in the fridge I'd roasted as backup for a bank cocktail buffet but didn't need, as well as half a baked ham shank I'd kept to make sandwiches and nibble on. Wham! It dawned on me: a sumptuous turkey and ham casserole with mushrooms and cheese and water chestnuts and sherry. The perfect bereavement dish. And with that I could do my baked cheese grits, and my congealed pickled peach and pecan salad, and some buttermilk biscuits, and maybe a simple bowl of ambrosia and some cookies. Everything but the grits and biscuits done in advance, easy to serve and eat, no mess, and who doesn't love a great casserole and grits and congealed salad?

Honestly, everybody in the South talks about their dogs as if they were members of the family,

UNSAFE Human Foods Below is a list of harmful foods for dogs. This is not a complete list, but a common list of foods known to be harmful to our canine friends. If you are unsure of a food that you wish to add to your dog’s diet, please consult a veterinarian or expert on dog nutrition. Onions: Both onions and garlic contain the toxic ingredient thiosulphate. However, onions are more dangerous than garlic because of this toxin. Many dog biscuits contain trace amounts of garlic, and because of this small amount, there is no threat to the health of your dog. This poison can be toxic in one large dose, or with repeated consumption that builds to the toxic level in the dog’s blood. Chocolate: Contains theobromine, a compound that is a cardiac stimulant and a diuretic. This can be fatal to dogs. Grapes: Contains an unknown toxin that can affect kidney, and in large enough amounts can cause acute kidney failure. Raisins: (Same as above) Most Fruit Pits and Seeds: Contains cyanogenic glycosides, which if consumed can cause cyanide poisoning. The fruits by themselves are okay to consume. Macadamia Nuts: Contains an unknown toxin that can be fatal to dogs. Most Bones: Should not be given (especially chicken bones) because they can splinter and cause a laceration of the digestive system or pose a choking hazard because of the possibility for them to become lodged in your pet’s throat. Potato Peelings and Green Potatoes: Contains oxalates, which can affect the digestive, nervous, and urinary systems. Rhubarb leaves: Contains high amount of oxalates. Broccoli: Broccoli should be avoided, though it is only dangerous in large amounts. Green parts of tomatoes: Contains oxalates, which can affect the digestive, nervous, and urinary systems. Yeast dough: Can produce gas and swell in your pet’s stomach and intestines, possibly leading to a rupture of the digestive system. Coffee and tea: (due to the caffeine) Alcoholic Beverages: Alcohol is very toxic to dogs and can lead to coma or even death. Human Vitamins: Vitamins containing iron are especially dangerous. These vitamins can cause damage to the lining of the digestive system, the kidneys, and liver. Moldy or spoiled foods: There are many possible harmful outcomes from spoiled foods. Persimmons: These can cause intestinal blockage. Raw Eggs: Potential for salmonella. Salt: In large doses can cause an electrolyte imbalance. Mushrooms: Can cause liver and kidney damage. Avocados: Avocado leaves; fruit, seeds, and bark contain a toxin known as persin. The Guatemalan variety that is commonly found in stores appears to be the most problematic. Avocados are known to cause respiratory distress in other animals, but causes less harmful problems in dogs. It is best to avoid feeding them to your dog. Xylitol: This artificial sweetener is not healthy for dogs.

Something lit up in Roane’s dark eyes as he stared at me. “She has a dog too. Hence the steady supply of biscuits.” Realizing I was not hiding my suspicious jealousy one bit, I felt my cheeks grow heated. “Oh.” He grinned at me. That sexy grin. “Aye. Oh.” The bastard was pleased I was jealous! I narrowed my eyes, which only made his grin widen.

The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals. ‘Got it,’ said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key. The goblin looked at it closely. ‘That seems to be in order.’ ‘An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,’ said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. ‘It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.’ The goblin read the letter carefully. ‘Very well,’ he said, handing it back to Hagrid, ‘I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!’ Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog-biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed Griphook towards one of the doors leading off the hall. ‘What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?’ Harry asked. ‘Can’t tell yeh that,’ said Hagrid mysteriously. ‘Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.

If Charley hadn’t shaken and bounced and said “Ftt,” I might have forgotten that every night he gets two dog biscuits and a walk to clear his head.

A biscuit eater is an ornery dog. He won’t hunt anything except his own biscuits. And he’ll suck eggs and steal chickens and run coons and jump rabbits. To a bird dog man, a biscuit eater is the lowest form of animal life. Strangers in Mississippi often are puzzled by the expression until natives, who usually eat biscuits instead of light bread, explain that a biscuit eater is a no ‘count hound that isn’t good for anything except to hunt his meat and biscuits.

Today, when dog pictures are mentioned, The Biscuit Eater still leads the critics’ lists. I had nothing to do with the movie. They used my story as the bases for the production.

Cyril knew that certain rewards had to be earned–that dog biscuits, enticing in their musty meatiness, the canine equivalent of Belgian chocolate truffles, were only obtained after you had done something: fetched a stick or a ball, pointlessly thrown, in the way in which humans, for unfathomable reasons, threw sticks and balls for dogs to retrieve; extended a paw for an unhygienic handshake (the namaste gesture was so difficult if you were a quadruped); or otherwise performed in a way that met with favour from your comptroller. (Edinburgh dogs do not have owners–too prosaic a term–they have comptrollers.)