Dog Harness Quotes

There is something quiet and warm about this tiny, temporary bond between the girl and the dog. What must it feel like to harness joy and love, instead of fear and hate? What kind of light does that cast?

In 1965, a psychologist named Martin Seligman started shocking dogs. He was trying to expand on the research of Pavlov--the guy who could make dogs salivate when they heard a bell ring. Seligman wanted to head in the other direction, and when he rang his bell, instead of providing food, he zapped the dogs with electricity. To keep them still, he restrained them in a harness during the experiment. After they were conditioned, he put these dogs in a big box with a little fence dividing it into two halves. He figured if the dog rang the bell, it would hop over the fence to escape, but it didn't. It just sat there and braced itself. They decided to try shocking the dog after the bell. The dog still just sat there and took it. When they put a dog in the box that had never been shocked before or had previously been allowed to escape and tried to zap it--it jumped the fence. You are just like these dogs. If, over the course of your life, you have experienced crushing defeat or pummeling abuse or loss of control, you convince yourself over time that there is no escape, and if escape is offered, you will not act--you become a nihilist who trusts futility above optimism. Studies of the clinically depressed show that they often give in to defeat and stop trying. . . Any extended period of negative emotions can lead to you giving in to despair and accepting your fate. If you remain alone for a long time, you will decide loneliness is a fact of life and pass up opportunities to hang out with people. The loss of control in any situation can lead to this state. . . Choices, even small ones, can hold back the crushing weight of helplessness, but you can't stop there. You must fight back your behavior and learn to fail with pride. Failing often is the only way to ever get the things you want out of life. Besides death, your destiny is not inescapable.

He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs.

I think you ought to write, in bed, and make use of your unhappiness. I do it. Many do. One should cook and eat one's misery. Chain it like a dog. Harness like Niagara Falls to generate light and supply voltage for electric chairs.

Some assistance dogs also wear harnesses that have a large solid, handle, intended for use instead of a leash.

Jeg angrer ingenting av det jeg har gjort, Jeg angrer dog på at jeg fortalte om det.

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

det svier, der hvor du lagde din hånd. som om du har sat dit aftryk i mit kød. og det er jo det du har. som ingen anden har du sat dit aftryk i mit kød. jeg er fuld af ar. jeg er dig ikke utaknemmelig. det hører til mit livs store oplevelser. det er uforklarligt. det er kemi. og jeg husker det hele som viljeløse handlinger, der dog var så fulde af vilje . til dit kød. dengang. lagenernes hvide stof i min knyttede hånd.

they hacked down trees widening rings around their central halls and blistered the land with peasant huts and pigeon fences till the forest looked like an old dog dying of mange. they thinned out the game, killed birds for sport, set accidental fire that would burn for days. their sheep killed hedges, snipped valleys bare, and their pigs nosed up the very roots of what might have grown. hrothgar's tribe made boats to drive farther north and west. there was nothing to stop the advance of man. huge boars fled at the click of a harness. wolves would cower in the glens like foxes when they caught that deadly scent. i was filled with a wordless, obscurely murderous unrest.

så lad det være den største forbryder, han er dog et menneske som jeg; også han har været uskyldig! Hvem veed, hvor mange haarde kampe han kjæmpede, før han gjorde det første skridt til sin ulykke; lidt efter lidt gled han dybere, - pludselig bliver ingen en forbryder: det ere lidenskaber, opdragelse og en forunderlig sammenkjædning af omstændigheder, som danner vores livs malerie, - vi maa afskye forbryderens handlinger, men kan menneskeligheden dadles om den beklager ham? Hvem veed hvorledes vi havde handlet, om vi vare fødte i hans stilling, med hans lidenskaber og begreber?

...rewilding is all about being nice, kind, compassionate, empathic, and harnessing our inborn goodness and optimism. We must all work together at this. It's about time we focus on the good side of human and animal nature. ... nature offers many lessons for kinder society. Blood shouldn't sell.

As they picked their way around the house through knee-high weeds dense with booby traps of unseen bottles, tin cans, rusted bed springs, broken emery stones, rotting harness, dead cats, dog offal, puddles of stinking garbage, and swarms of bottle flies, house flies, gnats, mosquitoes, the first cop said in extreme disgust, “I don’t see how people can live in such filth.” But he hadn’t seen anything yet. When they arrived at the back they found a section of the wall had fallen from the second floor, leaving a room exposed to the weather, and the rubble piled on the ground formed the only access to the open back door. Carefully they climbed up the pile of broken bricks and plaster, their footsteps raising a thick gray dust, and entered the kitchen unimpeded.

I been thinkin'," he said. "I been in the hills, thinkin', almost you might say like Jesus went into the wilderness to think His way out of a mess of troubles. Seems like Jesus got all messed up with troubles, and He couldn't figure nothin' out, an' He got to feelin' what the hell good is it all, an' what's the use fightin' an' figurin'. Got tired, got good an' tired, an' His sperit all wore out. Jus' about come to the conclusion, the hell with it. An' so He went off into the wilderness." "I ain't sayin' I'm like Jesus," the preacher went on. "But I got tired like Him, an' I got mixed up like Him, an' I went into the wilderness like Him, without no campin' stuff. Nighttime I'd lay on my back an' look up at the stars; morning I'd set an' watch the sun come up; midday I'd look out from a hill at the rollin' dry country; evenin' I'd foller the sun down. Sometimes I'd pray like I always done. On'y I couldn' figure what I was prayin' to or for. There was the hills, an' there was me, an' we wasn't separate no more. We was one thing. An' that one thing was holy." "An' I got thinkin', on'y it wasn't thinkin, it was deeper down than thinkin'. I got thinkin' how we was holy when we was one thing, an' mankin' was holy when it was one thing. An' it on'y got unholy when one mis'able little fella got the bit in his teeth an' run off his own way, kickin' an' draggin' an' fightin'. Fella like that bust the holiness. But when they're all workin' together, not one fella for another fella, but one fella kind of harnessed to the whole shebang—that's right, that's holy. An' then I got thinkin' I don't even know what I mean by holy." He paused, but the bowed heads stayed down, for they had been trained like dogs to rise at the "amen" signal. "I can't say no grace like I use' ta say. I'm glad of the holiness of breakfast. I'm glad there's love here. That's all." The heads stayed down. The preacher looked around. "I've got your breakfast cold," he said; and then he remembered. "Amen," he said, and all the heads rose up.

KARENO (sitter ved skrivebordet. Han er 50 år, skjeggløs, med nesten hvitt hår, iført slitte, grå klær): Min filosofis fremtid, sier De? Det kommer jo an på om den har noen fremtid. BONDESEN (56 år, tykk, med neseklemme, litt lapset kledd, i en stol): De har dog allerede fått Deres parti. KARENO: Jeg er formann i en forening, det er alt. Folk tror den dag idag at filosofi er tenkning; jeg har ment at filosofi var livet teoretisk uttrykt ved tenkning.

Jag trodde att en laptop skull klara sig fint utomhus. Det är ju bara elektronik. Den skulle hålla sig tillräckligt varm för att fungera ett kort tag och den har inget behov av luft. Den dog omedelbart, Skärmen blev svart innan jag kommit ut ur luftslussen. Det visar sig att L:et i "LCD" står för "liquid", flytande. Jag antar att det där som var flytande i skärmen antingen frös eller kokade bort. Borde kanske lägga upp ett sånt där användarbetyg. "Tog med en sån här till Mars. Den fungerade inte alls. Noll poäng av tio". (s 160–161)

A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts.

No record exists of Bear’s fate. He may have survived, but in all likelihood he never ran again—a horrible fate for an animal that lived and breathed solely to run with its pack down a moonlit trail. Some dogs just won’t accept being left out of the team and will howl and moan as the team leaves the yard. Sometimes they will sink into depression and die. Even those who accept their fate to sit by and watch the team leave always keep alive the instinct to one day run again. “If ever their master comes to them with harness in hand,” a modern-day musher wrote, “they will struggle on arthritic legs to ready themselves for the trail. There may be pain in their backs, but there is always hope in their eyes.

But Flush wandered off into the streets of Florence to enjoy the rapture of smell. He threaded his path through main streets and back streets, through squares and alleys, by smell. He nosed his way from smell to smell; the rough, the smooth, the dark, the golden. He went in and out, up and down, where they beat brass, where they bake bread, where the women sit combing their hair, where the bird-cages are piled high on the causeway, where the wine spills itself in dark red stains on the pavement, where leather smells and harness and garlic, where cloth is beaten, where vine leaves tremble, where men sit and drink and spit and dice—he ran in and out, always with his nose to the ground, drinking in the essence; or with his nose in the air vibrating with the aroma.

I heard a choking sound behind me. When I looked back, Cannoli was hanging from the backpack harness with her hind legs circling frantically in the air. She looked like she was riding a bike just above ground level. "Cannoli," I yelled. I unhooked her and made sure she was breathing on her own. When I tried to get her back in the backpack, she whimpered. I talked to her soothingly yet firmly, then tried again. This time she started howling like I was hurting her. People turned and stared as they walked by. "What are you looking at?" I said to one couple. I suddenly felt true remorse for every time I'd stared at a parent with a toddler throwing a tantrum. I made a vow to be a better aunt to Tulia's kids if I ever made it out of this parking garage. I pleaded with Cannoli one more time.

In a healthy body, this synchronicity is perfectly regulated. Healthy people are firmly locked into these rhythms. When disease occurs, one of those rhythms has gone awry. Stress is the biggest disrupter. If you’re stressed, if you’re feeling hostility, your body’s balance gets thrown off. Stress breaks our nonlocal connection with everything else. When you are experiencing disease (“disease”), then some part of your body is beginning to get constricted. It is tuning itself out from the nonlocal field of intelligence. There are many emotions that can cause a disruption of the electromagnetic field in the heart, but the ones that have been most precisely documented are anger and hostility. Once this synchronization is disrupted, your body starts to behave in a fragmented manner. The immune system gets suppressed, which leads to other problems, such as increased susceptibility to cancer, infections, and accelerated aging. This effect is so strong that animals can pick it up. If a dog sees a person who is harboring hostility, it will bark and act ferocious. Wherever you go, you are broadcasting who you are at this very intimate level.

He was taking another hit from his short-and-squat of Goose when his eyes skipped to the arched doorway of the room. Jane hesitated as she glanced inside, her white coat opening as she leaned to the side, as if she were looking for him. When their eyes met, she smiled a little. And then a lot. His first impulse was to hide his own grin behind his Goose. But then he stopped himself. New world order. Come on, smile, motherfucker, he thought. Jane gave a short wave and played it cool, which was what they usually did when they were together in public. Turning away, she headed over to the bar to make herself something. “Hold up, cop,” V murmured, putting his drink down and bracing his cue against the table. Feeling like he was fifteen, he put his hand-rolled between his teeth and tucked his wife-beater tightly into the waistband of his leathers. A quick smooth of the hair and he was . . . well, as ready as he could be. He approached Jane from behind just as she struck up a convo with Mary—and when his shellan pivoted around to greet him, she seemed a little surprised that he’d come up to her. “Hi, V . . . How are—” Vishous stepped in close, putting them body to body, and then he wrapped his arms around her waist. Holding her with possession, he slowly bent her backward until she gripped his shoulders and her hair fell from her face. As she gasped, he said exactly what he thought: “I missed you.” And on that note, he put his mouth on hers and kissed the ever-living hell out of her, sweeping one hand down to her hip as he slipped his tongue in her mouth, and kept going and going and going . . . He was vaguely aware that the room had fallen stone silent and that everything with a heartbeat was staring at him and his mate. But whatever. This was what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it in front of everyone—and the king’s dog, as it turned out. Because Wrath and Beth came in from the foyer. As Vishous slowly righted his shellan, the catcalls and whistling started up, and someone threw a handful of popcorn like it was confetti. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Hollywood said. And threw more popcorn. Vishous cleared his throat. “I have an announcement to make.” Right. Okay, there were a lot of eyes on the pair of them. But he was so going to suck up his inclination to bow out. Tucking his flustered and blushing Jane into his side, he said loud and clear: “We’re getting mated. Properly. And I expect you all to be there and . . . Yeah, that’s it.” Dead. Quiet. Then Wrath released the handle on George’s harness and started to clap. Loud and slow. “About. Fucking. Time.

Certainly no permission was asked of the owners. The dogs were simply shot. In some instances, the carcasses were thrown in piles and burnt. All this happened in view of their shocked owners. For the Nunavut perspectives of the dog slaughters, see the Qikiqtani Truth Commission Reports, which were commissioned by the Qikiqtani Inuit Association. The testimony of Inuit who watched the slaughter unfold is harrowing. Some men had come in from outpost camps and watched as their only means of transport, their only way to get back to their families, was destroyed before their eyes. Others said that they were preparing to go hunting, and their dogs were shot and killed as they stood harnessed to the sleds. Still others testified that the RCMP chased and shot loose dogs, even firing at those that had taken refuge under family homes. Some dogs were wounded and not killed, and their owners would beg the officials to track the animals down to put them out of their suffering. My own uncle Johnny eventually told me that he received a knock on his door, only to have someone of authority throw his new harnesses in his face and tell him, without remorse or apology, that he had just shot his dogs.

Sadie hopped in the car, twisting the key in the ignition and checking her makeup in the visor's mirror at the same time. Not enough eye shadow, she mused. Or maybe just a brighter shade... She'd pick up a festive color when she had a chance. “What do you think, Coco?” Sadie reached into the tote bag and pulled out the squirming ball of fluff, holding Coco up against her face so they could look in the mirror together. “C’mon, now, one yip for an exotic color around the eyes, two yips for brighter lipstick.” Instead of yipping an answer, the Yorkie gave Sadie’s cheek a canine kiss. Sadie reciprocated with a pat on the head. “I know, Coco, you love me just as I am. I feel the same way. Besides, I don’t think you’d care for lipstick unless it tasted like peanut butter.” Sadie adjusted the velvet pillow in the tote bag, placed the dog back inside and adjusted the seatbelt harness that held the bag in place. “Let’s go check out this inn of Tina’s. What do you say to that?” She smiled at the immediate yip of approval. It was rare she didn’t gain Coco’s enthusiasm when the word “go” turned up anywhere in a sentence.

Did he know what love was? The love for a father, a sister, for a dog even, yes, but between a husband and wife? Two lives knitted inextricably together. Or yoked and harnessed. ("That's the point," Sylvie said, "otherwise we would all run wild.")

Forget about the fast lane. If you really want to fly, harness your power to your passion. Honor your calling. Everybody has one. Trust your heart, and success will come to you.” ~ Oprah Winfrey

In my headlamp the dogs looked like ghosts, glistening with frost and half obscured in a cloud of their own frozen breaths. The clinking of the hardware on the collars and harnesses made music in the quite of the night.

A mystic is a man who surrendered his mind at its first encounter with the minds of others. Somewhere in the distant reaches of his childhood, when his own understanding of reality clashed with the assertions of others, with their arbitrary orders and contradictory demands, he gave in to so craven a fear of independence that he renounced his rational faculty. At the crossroads of the choice between ‘I know’ and ‘They say,’ he chose the authority of others, he chose to submit rather than to understand, to believe rather than to think. Faith in the supernatural begins as faith in the superiority of others. His surrender took the form of the feeling that he must hide his lack of understanding, that others possess some mysterious knowledge of which he alone is deprived, that reality is whatever they want it to be, through some means forever denied to him. “From then on, afraid to think, he is left at the mercy of unidentified feelings. His feelings become his only guide, his only remnant of personal identity, he clings to them with ferocious possessiveness—and whatever thinking he does is devoted to the struggle of hiding from himself that the nature of his feelings is terror. “When a mystic declares that he feels the existence of a power superior to reason, he feels it all right, but that power is not an omniscient super-spirit of the universe, it is the consciousness of any passer-by to whom he has surrendered his own. A mystic is driven by the urge to impress, to cheat, to flatter, to deceive, to force that omnipotent consciousness of others. ‘They’ are his only key to reality, he feels that he cannot exist save by harnessing their mysterious power and extorting their unaccountable consent. ‘They’ are his only means of perception and, like a blind man who depends on the sight of a dog, he feels he must leash them in order to live. To control the consciousness of others becomes his only passion; power-lust is a weed that grows only in the vacant lots of an abandoned mind.

A mystic is a man who surrendered his mind at its first encounter with the minds of others. Somewhere in the distant reaches of his childhood, when his own understanding of reality clashed with the assertions of others, with their arbitrary orders and contradictory demands, he gave in to so craven a fear of independence that he renounced his rational faculty. At the crossroads of the choice between ‘I know’ and ‘They say,’ he chose the authority of others, he chose to submit rather than to understand, to believe rather than to think. Faith in the supernatural begins as faith in the superiority of others. His surrender took the form of the feeling that he must hide his lack of understanding, that others possess some mysterious knowledge of which he alone is deprived, that reality is whatever they want it to be, through some means forever denied to him. “From then on, afraid to think, he is left at the mercy of unidentified feelings. His feelings become his only guide, his only remnant of personal identity, he clings to them with ferocious possessiveness—and whatever thinking he does is devoted to the struggle of hiding from himself that the nature of his feelings is terror. “When a mystic declares that he feels the existence of a power superior to reason, he feels it all right, but that power is not an omniscient super-spirit of the universe, it is the consciousness of any passer-by to whom he has surrendered his own. A mystic is driven by the urge to impress, to cheat, to flatter, to deceive, to force that omnipotent consciousness of others. ‘They’ are his only key to reality, he feels that he cannot exist save by harnessing their mysterious power and extorting their unaccountable consent. ‘They’ are his only means of perception and, like a blind man who depends on the sight of a dog, he feels he must leash them in order to live. To control the consciousness of others becomes his only passion; power-lust is a weed that grows only in the vacant lots of an abandoned mind. “Every dictator is a mystic, and every mystic is a potential dictator. A mystic craves obedience from men, not their agreement. He wants them to surrender their consciousness to his assertions, his edicts, his wishes, his whims—as his consciousness is surrendered to theirs. He wants to deal with men by means of faith and force—he finds no satisfaction in their consent if he must earn it by means of facts and reason. Reason is the enemy he dreads and, simultaneously, considers precarious: reason, to him, is a means of deception, he feels that men possess some power more potent than reason—and only their causeless belief or their forced obedience can give him a sense of security, a proof that he has gained control of the mystic endowment he lacked. His lust is to command, not to convince: conviction requires an act of independence and rests on the absolute of an objective reality.

If someone could harness the power of my love for this dog, I swear I could singlehandedly end our nation’s dependence on foreign oil.

Will you lead us?” asked Tubal-cain. “No,” said Mikael. “You will. We archangels have gods to bind.” They could see the armies of the gods moving into formation on the dry plains before them: Phalanxes of humans, followed by battalions of falcon-headed, hawk-headed, dog- and wolf-headed soldiers. Behind them, platoons of Nephilim finished off a demonic army of genetically mutated beasts. They were twenty thousand strong. Then the three lead generals of the gods came forward from the rear. They were Enki, Ninhursag, and Enlil, mounted on special harnesses on the backs of monstrous Nephilim.

the American journalist Martha Gellhorn wrote after trekking across much of China in 1940. No worse luck could befall a human being than to be born and live there, unless by some golden chance you happened to be born one of the .00000099 percent who had power, money, privilege (and even then, even then). I pitied them all, I saw no tolerable future for them, and I longed to escape away from what I had escaped into: the age-old misery, filth, hopelessness and my own claustrophobia inside that enormous country. Skinny, sweaty rickshaw pullers strained at their large-wheeled contraptions to provide transportation to the rich. The scenes of nearly naked coolies towing barges up canals and rivers, leaning so far against their harnesses as to be almost horizontal to the ground, were an emblem, picturesque and horrible at the same time, of the unrelenting strain of everyday life in China, as were such other standard images as the women with leathery skin barefoot in the muck planting and weeding, the farmers covered in sweat at the foot pumps along fetid canals or carrying their loads of brick or straw on balancing poles slung over their shoulders or moving slowly and patiently behind water buffalo pulling primitive plows. The fly-specked hospitals, the skinny, crippled beggars, the thousands and thousands of villages made of baked mud whose houses, as one visitor described them, were “smoky, with gray walls and black tiled roofs; the inhabitants, wearing the invariable indigo-dyed cloth … moving about their business in an inextricable confusion of scraggy chickens, pigs, dogs, and babies.

Backseat riding. Your dog should ride in the backseat, ideally inside a carrier crate or strapped in with a dog seat belt harness. Seat cover. You can protect the seat with a blanket or purchase seat covers.

Purchasing dog leashes online is best accomplished with Julius-K9.co.uk. Various dog leash choices include leather, caoutchouc, rope, super grip, and luminous. The material used is of the highest quality and takes your dog’s comfort into account.

I Verden øves selsom Spil, Best bider gammel Vane, Men Folk maa giøre hvad de vil Saa galer dog min Hane. Vil derfor nogen blive vred, Det er mig lige meget; Jeg har god Samvittighed, Saa har enhver sit eget.

Chief Wimbe also loved his cat, which was black and white but had no name. In Malawi, only dogs are given names, I don't know why.

We soon settled it by all hands going, and buckled down to the work of getting ready. Sleds were strengthened, harnesses and moccasins made and repaired, and every dog and every pound of dog-food to be obtained for love or money skirmished from White and Indian. So bust were we, that when we pulled out the following morning, we left a notice for the first comer to bury the man on the roof. And so the Madness grew; for when one fails to bury the dead at his door, he is indeed ready to be destroyed.

There’s an old joke that the factory of the future will have two employees: a human and a dog. The human’s job will be to feed the dog, and the dog’s job will be to keep the human from touching any of the machines. Is that actually what the company of tomorrow will look like?

A dog of Flanders - yellow of hide, large of head and limb, with wolf-like ears that stood erect, and legs bowed and feed widened in the muscular development wrought in his breed by many generations of hard service. Patrasche came of a race which had toiled hard and cruelly from sire to son in Flanders many a century - slaves of slaves, dogs of the people, beasts of the shafts and the harness, creatures that lived straining their sinews in the gall of the cart, and died breaking their hearts on the flints of the streets.

Hvor ofte havde han ikke, næsten ydmygt, forundret sig over denne sin Sjæls vidunderlige Rigdom og over sin Aands magtsikre Guddomstryghed, thi Dagene kunde finde ham dømmende Verden og de Ting, som er i Verden, fra helt modsatte Standpunkter og finde ham betragtende dem, Verden og dens Ting, gjennem Forudsætninger, der var saa forskjellige fra hinanden som Nat fra Morgen, uden at dog disse valgte Standpunkter og valgte Forudsætninger, som han havde gjort til sine, nogensinde, selv blot et Sekund, gjorde ham til deres, ligesaalidt som Guden, der har taget Tyrens eller Svanens Skikkelse paa sig, et eneste øjeblik bliver Tyr eller Svane og ophører at være Gud.

Hvem veed? maaske man tager fejl, maaske Ens Forstand, Ens Instinkt, Ens Sandser, med al deres dagslyse Klarhed, dog fører En vild, maaske det netop gjælder om at have det uforstandige Mod at følge den Haabets Lygtemand, som brænder over Ens Lidenskabers attraasvangre Gjæring. Det er først naar man har hørt Afgjørelsens Dør slaa i, at Vishedens jernkolde Kløer graver sig ind i Ens Bryst for langsomt, langsomt at samle sig i Ens Hjærte om den nervefine Traad af Haab, hvori Ens Lykkeverden hænger, saa skjæres Traaden over, saa falder det, den bar, saa knuses det, saa kommer Fortvivlesens Skrig skarpt gjennem Tomheden. I Tvivl fortvivler der Ingen.

Mark and toss a treat for: ● auto check-ins: Whenever your dog looks back at you ● staying near you ● waiting instead of running off ● staying on the path ● keeping a loose leash ●     showing various calming signals, such as sniffing the ground, shaking off stress, yawning, blinking, lip licking etc.

Guide Dog Wisdom What I Learned from Roselle on 9/11 1. There’s a time to work and a time to play. Know the difference. When the harness goes on, it’s time to work. Work hard; others are depending on you. 2. Focus in and use all of your senses. Learn to tell the difference between a harmless thunderstorm and a true emergency. Don’t let your sight get in the way of your vision. 3. Sometimes the way is hard, but if you work together, someone will pass along a water bottle just when you need it. 4. Always, but always, kiss firefighters. 5. Ignore distractions. There’s more to life than playing fetch or chasing tennis balls. 6. Listen carefully to those who are wiser and more experienced than you. They’ll help you find the way. 7. Don’t stop until work is over. Sometimes being a hero is just doing your job. 8. The dust cloud won’t last forever. Keep going and look for the way out. It will come. 9. Shake off the dust and move on. Remember the first guide dog command? “Forward.” 10. When work is over, play hard with your friends. And don’t forget to share your Booda Bone.

Mounted on a bay horse (or, according to some accounts, a palomino) with clipped tail and ears and a plow-horse’s harness, the abbot’s representative carried a whip, a seed bag of wheat, and a basket filled with 120 rissoles. These were crescent-shaped pastries made of rye flour, stuffed with minced veal cooked in oil. A dog followed, also with clipped ears and tail, and with a rissole tied around his neck. The agent circled a stone cross at the entrance to the court three times, cracking his whip on each tour, dismounted and knelt at the lion platform, and, if each detail of equipment and performance was exactly right so far, was allowed to proceed. He then mounted the platform, kissed the lion, and deposited the rissoles plus twelve loaves of bread and three portions of wine as his homage. The Sire de Coucy took a third of the offerings, distributed the rest among the assembled bailiffs and town magistrates, and stamped the document of homage with a seal representing a mitered abbot with the feet of a goat.

Khalil, why won't you let this man help strap me in?" I chuckled as he wore a look of confusion as he tried to tighten the belt and harness around my waist and between my legs. "If I get up here and fall to my death, it's your fault." He paused his movements and looked at me momentarily. Turning his attention back to the instructor, he waved him over. He looked from me to Khalil before he fully came over to us. "Yes, sir?" "Fasten my girl in and make sure she's secure." He stood to full height and mugged the scared white man slightly. "If something happens to her, I'm killing you, your wife, and the fuckin' dog. Watch your hands and shit, too," Khalil warned. I shook my head and looked on as the man nervously strapped me into the seat. Khalil was playing a dangerous game by intimidating this man when my life was literally in his hands. "Aight baby. I'm going to be on the other side waiting on you." He kissed me once I was strapped in. "If you die on me, I'ma kill you.

If you have a dog who—at least some amount of the time—has to walk on the field leash, you should absolutely make sure that he is fitted with a harness. In general, using a harness instead of a collar is preferable, but if your dog is on a long leash, it is vital. The danger of injury that a dog is exposed to is extremely high when he reaches the end of a leash with fifteen, thirty, or more feet. The entire pressure of the jerk he receives when he hits the end of the line is distributed across the cervical spine, larynx, thyroid, and trachea. You can compare this to the impact of crashing into another car at about 35 mph. Remember: we humans put the seat belt across our chests and don’t wrap it around our necks—and for a good reason. In my opinion, wearing a harness is always more sensible than wearing a collar—in field leash training it is indispensable!

Guide Dog Wisdom What I Learned from Roselle on 9/11 1. There’s a time to work and a time to play. Know the difference. When the harness goes on, it’s time to work. Work hard; others are depending on you. 2. Focus in and use all of your senses. Learn to tell the difference between a harmless thunderstorm and a true emergency. Don’t let your sight get in the way of your vision. 3. Sometimes the way is hard, but if you work together, someone will pass along a water bottle just when you need it. 4. Always, but always, kiss firefighters.

Since help is a versatile core word, I modeled it throughout several different contexts—pulling the blinds up, finding a toy for Stella, putting her harness on, moving her dishes to find the one morsel of food that fell behind her bowl. Modeling words in varying ways helps the learner understand that each word can be used to talk about more than one or two different situations.

When we started back to our building, I knew we were about to embark on an adventure. I could feel Emily's excitement in the way she held my guide dog working harness." Garth--from Down the Aisle.

My training is not from the trained dogs, my training is from an untrained lion, Har Har Har Mahadev

Derfor føler uelskede sig senere i livet altid under pres af kærlighedsforventning eller -krav. Den normative spændetrøje, som de er spærret inde i, oparbejder en ubændig trang i dem til at sprænge den. Denne trang er foreløbig ikke gennemlevet. Men hvis de nu gribes af kærlighed til et andet menneske, kan det måske endelig lykkes dem at gennembryde det normative i deres hidtidige liv. Dog har den måde, hvorpå de oplever befrielse fra normerne også noget tragisk ved sig. For baggrunden for lidelserne fra før medfører, at kærligheden for dem ikke så meget er befrielse til et andet menneske, der i sin anderledeshed kunne blive et ledebillede for den endnu brakliggende livsmulighed, som det er befrielse fra undertrykkelsen af de livshæmmende normer, altså mere en befrielse fra fortiden end mod fremtiden. For dem er kærligheden i første omgang et signal til at sprænge gamle lænker og destruere gamle normer. Til en ny livsform er der næsten ikke energi tilovers.

Folk ser ud til at forlade udstillingen fulde af indtryk, og på gaden fortsætter de i lang tid med at diskutere de forskellige tegninger og projekter. Alle nægter at tro, at sådanne værker kan laves inden for ghettoens mure, især under de nuværende forhold med konstante menneskejagter, sult, epidemier og terror. Og dog er det tilfældet! Vores ungdom har givet håndgribelige beviser på sit mod og sin åndelig styrke, modstandskraft og tro på en ny og mere retfærdig verden.

People will continue to be critically important in the improved health care delivery systems of the future, but not always in the same roles as today. Emotionally and socially astute care coordinators, rather than brilliant diagnosticians and other HiPPOs, might move to center stage. Earlier, we told the old joke about the two employees—person and dog—in the factory of the future. We suggest a slight tweak for health care: the medical office of the future might employ an artificial intelligence, a person, and a dog. The AI’s job will be to diagnose the patient, the person’s job will be to understand and communicate the diagnosis, and to coach the patient through treatment, and the dog’s job will be to bite the person if the person tries to second-guess the artificial intelligence.

Ofte har jeg spurgt mig selv: findes der i verden, i hele summen af det menneskelige liv, en sådan skuffelse, en sådan fortvivlelse, at den skulle kunne få bugt med denne rasende livstørst, som jo er imod al sømmelighed? Og altid må jeg give mig selv det svar: en sådan fortvivlelse kan jeg ikke tænke mig. ... Mennesket vil leve, og jeg lever, ja lever på trods af al logik og forstand. Selv om jeg ikke tror en døjt på tingenes indre orden og mening - jeg elsker dog grenenes klæbrige, bristende skud hvert forår, det blå himmeldyb, et eller andet menneske, som jeg, måske uden selv at vide hvorfor, finder uimodståeligt.

It's better to think of some behaviours as genetic gifts rather than ‘behavioural issues'. A Labrador who runs around with random things in his mouth, a Jack Russell who loves to chase small animals, a German Shepherd who guards your property with great vigilance - these are all things informed by genetics. Instead of trying to suppress a dog's natural desires and instincts or passing them off as problematic, we need to consider embracing these genetic traits and harnessing them into positive outlets - which is why it's important for owners to choose the right breed for themselves and their lifestyle from the outset.