Dog Kennel Quotes

Who cares for his causes of complaint? Are you to break your heart to set his mind at ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace - they drag us away from our parents' love and our sisters' friendship - they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return?

Everyone thinks their world is the only one. A flea believes a dog is the world. A dog believes the kennel is the world. The huntsman thinks his country is the world. The king believes the globe is the world. The farther out you get, the wider you get, the higher you get, the more you see you have misunderstood the bounds of what is possible. Of what is right and wrong. Of what you can truly do. Perspective, Ronan Lynch.

No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace – they drag us away from our parents’ love and our sisters’ friendship – they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return?

Buy for me from the King's own kennels, the finest elk hounds of the Royal strain, male and female. Bring them back without delay. For," he murmured, scarcely above his breath as he turned to his books, "I have done with men.

I had to go away for a few days so I called the kennel and made an appointment. I guess Bear overheard the conversation. “Love and company,” said Bear, “are the adornments that change everything. I know they’ll be nice to me, but I’ll be sad, sad, sad.” And pitifully he wrung his paws. I cancelled the trip.

Her free hand was clenched in a fist. I held still, waiting for her to say something, to tell me she should have never left me here, where her friends might look to me for help. Finally she looked at me. Her eyes were hard, but she'd let no tears fall. "This is where we blame those who are responsible, Cooper, she told me, her voice very soft. "The colemongers, and the bought Dogs at Tradesmen's kennel. We'll leave an offering for him with the Black God when all this is done, and we'll occupy ourselves with tearing these colemongers apart. all right? We put grief aside for now.

Finally the bell rings and the teenage Pavlovian dogs mosve to the next kennel.

When Charlie arrived home from his mother's funeral, he was met at the door by two very large very enthusiastic canines, who , undistracted by keeping watch over Sophie's love hostage, were now able to visit the full measure of their affection and joy upon their returning master. It is generally agreed, and in fact stated in the bylaws of the American Kennel Club, that you have not been truly dog-humped until you have been double-dog-humped by a pair of four-hundred-pouund hounds from hell (Section 5, paragraph 7: Standards of Humping and Ass-dragging). And despite having used an extra-strength antiperspirant that very morning before leaving Sedona, Charlie found that getting poked repeatedly in the armpits by two damp devil-dog dicks was leaving him feeling less than fresh. Sophie, call them off. Call them off." The puppies are dancing with Daddy," Sophie giggled. "Dance, Daddy!

The hard right verses three easy wrong

The dachshund was evolved to chase badgers down holes, and the corgi to round up cattle. If anyone loses a herd of cattle down a badger hole, then these are just the dogs to get them out.

No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace—they drag us away from our parents' love and our sisters' friendship—they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return?

We slept at an inn which was so thick with fleas you would have thought it was a dog kennel;

There were nine dogs on the Titanic. They stayed in kennels, but their owners could take them out onto the decks for walks. Two Pomeranians and one Pekingese survived with their masters.

On the first night in California, he slept in his kennel; by the second night, we were sharing a bed, although I do recall pushing him off in the middle of the night for being such an aggressive snuggler and blanket hog.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death: That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, That foul defacer of God's handiwork, That excellent grand tyrant of the earth That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, Thy womb let loose to chase us to our graves.

No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace—they drag us away from our parents' love and our sisters' friendship—they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return? Let me go, Laura—I'm mad when I think of it!

A thinker erects an immense building, a system, a system which embraces the whole of existence and world-history, etc. And if we contemplate his personal life, we discover to our astonishment this terrible and ludicrous fact, that he himself personally does not live in this immense high-vaulted palace, but in a barn alongside of it, or in a dog kennel, or at the most in the porter’s lodge. If one were to take the liberty of calling his attention to this by a single word, he would be offended. For he has no fear of being under a delusion, if only he can get the system completed… by means of the delusion.

The Hunchback in the Park The hunchback in the park A solitary mister Propped between trees and water From the opening of the garden lock That lets the trees and water enter Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark Eating bread from a newspaper Drinking water from the chained cup That the children filled with gravel In the fountain basin where I sailed my ship Slept at night in a dog kennel But nobody chained him up. Like the park birds he came early Like the water he sat down And Mister they called Hey mister The truant boys from the town Running when he had heard them clearly On out of sound Past lake and rockery Laughing when he shook his paper Hunchbacked in mockery Through the loud zoo of the willow groves Dodging the park keeper With his stick that picked up leaves. And the old dog sleeper Alone between nurses and swans While the boys among willows Made the tigers jump out of their eyes To roar on the rockery stones And the groves were blue with sailors Made all day until bell time A woman figure without fault Straight as a young elm Straight and tall from his crooked bones That she might stand in the night After the locks and chains All night in the unmade park After the railings and shrubberies The birds the grass the trees the lake And the wild boys innocent as strawberries Had followed the hunchback To his kennel in the dark.

The first thing I often did with fearful dogs like Solo drew laughs from the other trainers. I’d walk into the dog’s kennel with a book, sit down, and read aloud.

The hard right vs. The easy wrong

As you go forward, then, remember this: most men are hunters and collectors. You must come to know the difference between those who do so out of true appreciation and affection, those who do it for sport, those who do it for prestige and to possess what others admire and desire, and those who do it desperate to use a woman as a shield. The fourth man is hiding something. The third man can be like a dog that teases others in it's kennel with the bone it will never share. That kind of man might tear his object of affection to shreds, without meaning to, just as a dog would a bone. The second man can amuse you with the game of the hunt, if you do not take him too seriously. and the first? Well, if you can find the first kind of man, you have found heaven.

Monks congregate like dogs in a kennel, From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge, Is one the course of the wind, is one the water of the sea? Is one the spark of the fire, of unrestrainable tumult? Monks congregate like wolves, From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge. They know not when the deep night and dawn divide. Nor what is the course of the wind, or who agitates it, In what place it dies away, on what land it roars.

kennel cards and medical paperwork—did not match the animals’ DNA results 87.5 percent of the time. Additionally, the people who labeled the dogs could not agree with one another on which breeds were likely present in which dog. There was no interobserver reliability.

Over the generations, we have bred and inbred our canine companions to the point of disease and deformity. One analysis of popular dog breeds turned up a total of 396 inherited diseases affecting the canines; each breed included in the analysis had been linked to at least four, and as many as seventy-seven, different hereditary afflictions… In some cases, these disorders are nasty side effects of a small gene pool, of generations of breeding related dogs or relying on just a few popular sires. In others, they’re due to intentional selection for the exaggerated physical traits prized by kennel clubs and dog show judges.

stand or stumble through the shallow water to lie groaning on the shore. He had a famished and a savage look like a dog that has been chained and forgotten in a kennel for a week. It was Thorin, but you could only have told it by his golden chain, and by the colour of his now dirty and tattered sky-blue hood with its tarnished

Pond(er) This [2] I don't want to be the loudest tail wagger in the Hello Poetry kennel ~ I just want there to be less of you flea bag bitten bitches in heat. Enough already, with your bullshit barking. SIT STILL! Thaaat's it. Good girl! You're a good dog, aren't you? Let me scratch behind your ears and give a another treat of my wit.

No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace—they drag us away from our parents’ love and our sisters’ friendship—they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return?

After dinner Miss June and the family came, followed by the butler, the cook, the maids and grooms, the gardener and the kennel-man, and carols were sung for half an hour. Then presents were distributed to all the servants. At last, when goodnights and holiday greetings had been spoken, the dog and the girl were left alone in the glow of the Christmas tree.

Most of all I enjoy central-heating control rooms, where men with higher education, chained to their jobs like dogs to their kennels, write the history of their times as a sort of sociological survey and where I learned how the fourth estate was depopulated and the proletariat went from base to superstructure and how the university-trained elite now carries on its work.

A flash of lightning ghosts into the room, and when it leaves again, my eyes follow it back out to sea. In the window's reflection, I glimpse a figure standing behind me. I don't need to turn around to see who creates such a big outline-or who makes my whole body turn into a goose-bump farm. "How do you feel?" he says. "Better," I say to his reflection. He hops over the back of the couch and grabs my chin, turning my head side to side, up and down, all around, watching for my reaction. "I just did that," I tell him. "Nothing." He nods and unhands me. "Rach-Uh, my mom called your mom and told her what happened. I guess your mom called your doctor, and he said it's pretty common, but that you should rest a few more days. My mom insisted you stay the night since no one needs to be driving in this weather." "And my mother agreed to that?" Even in the dark, I don't miss his little grin. "My mom can be pretty persuasive," he says. "By the end of the conversation, your mom even suggested we both stay home from school tomorrow and hang out here so you can relax-since my mom will be home supervising, of course. Your mom said you wouldn't stay home if I went to school." A flash from the storm illuminates my blush. "Because we told her we're dating." He nods. "She said you should have stayed home today, but you threw a fit to go anyway. Honestly, I didn't realize you were so obsessed-ouch!" I try to pinch him again, but he catches my wrist and pulls me over his lap like a child getting a spanking. "I was going to say, 'with history.'" He laughs. "No you weren't. Let me up." "I will." He laughs. "Galen, you let me up right now-" "Sorry, not ready yet." I gasp. "Oh, no! The room is spinning again." I hold still, tense up. Then the room does spin when he snatches me up and grabs my chin again. The look of concern etched on his face makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to keep my mouth shut. "Works every time," I tell him, giving my best ha-ha-you're-a-sucker smirk. A snicker from the entryway cuts off what I can tell is about to be a good scolding. I've never heard Galen curse, but his glower just looks like a four-letter word waiting to come out. We both turn to see Toraf watching us with crossed arms. He is also wearing a ha-ha-you're-a-sucker smirk. "Dinner's ready, children," he says. Yep, I definitely like Toraf. Galen rolls his eyes and extracts me from his lap. He hops up and leaves me there, and in the reflection, I see him ram his fist into Toraf's gut as he passes. Toraf grunts, but the smirk never leaves his face. He nods his head for me to follow them. As we pass through the rooms, I try to remember the rich, sophisticated atmosphere, the marble floors, the hideous paintings, but my stomach makes sounds better suited to a dog kennel at feeding time. "I think your stomach is making mating calls," Toraf whispers to me as we enter the kitchen. My blush debuts the same time we enter the kitchen, and it's enough to make Toraf laugh out loud.

What else? Flea collar?” “You already did a dog joke. With ‘kennel.’ ” “So I did, Parrish.” He continued down the aisle, shoulders square, chin tilted haughtily. He did not look like he was shopping. He looked like he was committing larceny. He swept some toothpaste into the basket. “Which toothbrush? This one looks fast.” He sent it plummeting in with the other supplies.

Are you to break your heart to set his mind at ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace - they drag us away from our parents' love and our sisters' friendship - they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return?

Take tail docking…in which the last several inches of a puppy’s tail are removed, usually without anesthesia, sometimes with extremely crude instruments such as scissors or razors. The American Kennel Club (AKC), which develops guidelines used to judge canines in competition, prefers boxers, rottweilers, cocker spaniels, and dogs belonging to dozens of other breeds to have docked tails. In other words, an ideal specimen is one that’s been surgically reshaped by humans.

Before Elfrida Phipps left London for good and moved to the country, she made a trip to Battersea Dogs' Home, and returned with a canine companion. It took a good, and heart-rending, half hour of searching, but as soon as she saw him, sitting very close to the bars of his kennel and gazing up at her with dark and melting eyes, she knew he was the one. She did not want a large animal, nor did she relish the idea of a yapping lap dog. This one was exactly the right size. Dog size.

And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling air, and the ragged old rooks'-nests still dangling in the elm-trees at the bottom of the front garden. Now I am in the garden at the back, beyond the yard where the empty pigeon-house and dog-kennel are—a very preserve of butterflies, as I remember it, with a high fence, and a gate and padlock; where the fruit clusters on the trees, riper and richer than fruit has ever been since, in any other garden, and where my mother gathers some in a basket, while I stand by, bolting furtive gooseberries, and trying to look unmoved. A great wind rises, and the summer is gone in a moment. We are playing in the winter twilight, dancing about the parlour. When my mother is out of breath and rests herself in an elbow-chair, I watch her winding her bright curls round her fingers, and straitening her waist, and nobody knows better than I do that she likes to look so well, and is proud of being so pretty.

I do not believe that there is anything inherently and unavoidably ugly about industrialism. A factory or even a gasworks is not obliged of its own nature to be ugly, any more than a palace or a dog-kennel or a cathedral. . . . But in any case, though the ugliness of industrialism is the most obvious thing about it and the thing every newcomer exclaims against, I doubt whether it is centrally important. And perhaps it is not even desirable, industrialism being what it is, that it should learn to disguise itself as something else. As Mr Aldous Huxley has truly remarked, a dark Satanic mill ought to look like a dark Satanic mill and not like the temple of mysterious and splendid gods. Moreover, even in the worst of the industrial towns one sees a great deal that is not ugly in the narrow aesthetic sense. A belching chimney or a stinking slum is repulsive chiefly because it implies warped lives and ailing children. Look at it from a purely aesthetic standpoint and it may have a certain macabre appeal. I find that anything outrageously strange generally ends by fascinating me even when I abominate it.

But soon Flush became aware of the more profound differences that distinguish Pisa—it was in Pisa that they were now settled—from London. The dogs were different. In London he could scarcely trot round to the pillar-box without meeting some pug dog, retriever, bulldog, mastiff, collie, Newfoundland, St. Bernard, fox terrier or one of the seven famous families of the Spaniel tribe. To each he gave a different name, and to each a different rank. But here in Pisa, though dogs abounded, there were no ranks; all—could it be possible?—were mongrels. As far as he could see, they were dogs merely—grey dogs, yellow dogs, brindled dogs, spotted dogs; but it was impossible to detect a single spaniel, collie, retriever or mastiff among them. Had the Kennel Club, then, no jurisdiction in Italy? Was the Spaniel Club unknown? Was there no law which decreed death to the topknot, which cherished the curled ear, protected the feathered foot, and insisted absolutely that the brow must be domed but not pointed? Apparently not. Flush felt himself like a prince in exile. He was the sole aristocrat among a crowd of canaille. He was the only pure-bred cocker spaniel in the whole of Pisa.

I can understand the ignorant masses loving to soak themselves in drink—oh, yes, it's very shocking that they should, of course—very shocking to us who live in cozy homes, with all the graces and pleasures of life around us, that the dwellers in damp cellars and windy attics should creep from their dens of misery into the warmth and glare of the public-house bar, and seek to float for a brief space away from their dull world upon a Lethe stream of gin. But think, before you hold up your hands in horror at their ill-living, what "life" for these wretched creatures really means. Picture the squalid misery of their brutish existence, dragged on from year to year in the narrow, noisome room where, huddled like vermin in sewers, they welter, and sicken, and sleep; where dirt-grimed children scream and fight and sluttish, shrill-voiced women cuff, and curse, and nag; where the street outside teems with roaring filth and the house around is a bedlam of riot and stench. Think what a sapless stick this fair flower of life must be to them, devoid of mind and soul. The horse in his stall scents the sweet hay and munches the ripe corn contentedly. The watch-dog in his kennel blinks at the grateful sun, dreams of a glorious chase over the dewy fields, and wakes with a yelp of gladness to greet a caressing hand. But the clod-like life of these human logs never knows one ray of light. From the hour when they crawl from their comfortless bed to the hour when they lounge back into it again they never live one moment of real life. Recreation, amusement, companionship, they know not the meaning of. Joy, sorrow, laughter, tears, love, friendship, longing, despair, are idle words to them. From the day when their baby eyes first look out upon their sordid world to the day when, with an oath, they close them forever and their bones are shoveled out of sight, they never warm to one touch of human sympathy, never thrill to a single thought, never start to a single hope. In the name of the God of mercy; let them pour the maddening liquor down their throats and feel for one brief moment that they live!

What do you think?” Summer said. “I think they’re full of shit,” I said. “Important shit or regular flag-rank shit?” “They’re lying,” I said. “They’re uptight, they’re lying, and they’re stupid. Why am I worried about Kramer’s briefcase?” “Sensitive paperwork,” she said. “Whatever he was carrying to California.” I nodded. “They just defined it for me. It’s the conference agenda itself.” “You’re sure there was one?” “There’s always an agenda. And it’s always on paper. There’s a paper agenda for everything. You want to change the dog food in the K-9 kennels, you need forty-seven separate meetings with forty-seven separate paper agendas. So there was one for Irwin, that’s for damn sure. It was completely stupid to say there wasn’t. If they’ve got something to hide, they should have just said it’s too secret for me to see.” “Maybe the conference really wasn’t important.” “That’s bullshit too. It was very important.” “Why?” “Because a two-star general was going. And a one-star. And because it was New Year’s Eve, Summer. Who flies on New Year’s Eve and spends the night in a lousy stopover hotel? And this year in Germany was a big deal. The Wall is coming down. We won, after forty-five years. The parties must have been incredible. Who would miss them for something unimportant? To have gotten those three guys on a plane on New Year’s Eve, this Irwin thing had to be some kind of a very big deal.

And by the early 1970s our little parable of Sam and Sweetie is exactly what happened to the North American Golden Retriever. One field-trial dog, Holway Barty, and two show dogs, Misty Morn’s Sunset and Cummings’ Gold-Rush Charlie, won dozens of blue ribbons between them. They were not only gorgeous champions; they had wonderful personalities. Consequently, hundreds of people wanted these dogs’ genes to come into their lines, and over many matings during the 1970s the genes of these three dogs were flung far and wide throughout the North American Golden Retriever population, until by 2010 Misty Morn’s Sunset alone had 95,539 registered descendants, his number of unregistered ones unknown. Today hundreds of thousands of North American Golden Retrievers are descended from these three champions and have received both their sweet dispositions and their hidden time bombs. Unfortunately for these Golden Retrievers, and for the people who love them, one of these time bombs happens to be cancer. To be fair, a so-called cancer gene cannot be traced directly to a few famous sires, but using these sires so often increases the chance of recessive genes meeting—for good and for ill. Today, in the United States, 61.4 percent of Golden Retrievers die of cancer, according to a survey conducted by the Golden Retriever Club of America and the Purdue School of Veterinary Medicine. In Great Britain, a Kennel Club survey found almost exactly the same result, if we consider that those British dogs—loosely diagnosed as dying of “old age” and “cardiac conditions” and never having been autopsied—might really be dying of a variety of cancers, including hemangiosarcoma, a cancer of the lining of the blood vessels and the spleen. This sad history of the Golden Retriever’s narrowing gene pool has played out across dozens of other breeds and is one of the reasons that so many of our dogs spend a lot more time in veterinarians’ offices than they should and die sooner than they might. In genetic terms, it comes down to the ever-increasing chance that both copies of any given gene are derived from the same ancestor, a probability expressed by a number called the coefficient of inbreeding. Discovered in 1922 by the American geneticist Sewall Wright, the coefficient of inbreeding ranges from 0 to 100 percent and rises as animals become more inbred.

While I was at a huge disadvantage, I realized Solo had an advantage here that he didn't have at the local kennel club. Law enforcement handlers don't expect their dogs to get along. Most of their dogs have an edge. Every dog was on lead coming and going; each dog worked separately. The warehouse rang with another warning I would become accustomed to: "Dog in!" or "Dog out!" For me, that warning was a comfort. A standardization of practice that would benefit me greatly. Working Solo, I wouldn't have to keep my eyes peeled for a shorthaired pointer to come bounding over off lead. Soon enough, Solo realized the same thing: With cops and Crown Vics around, he started to ignore sharp barks and growls and dog-permeated air. I didn't have to apologize for his personality. To the police K9 handlers, Solo wasn't a sociopath. He didn't even qualify as a jackass.

Katarina wasn’t afraid of Baden. Not anymore. He took a step to the side, intending to move around her. Oh, no. She flattened her hands on his shoulders, keeping him in place. “I want to know what’s wrong with you.” She said. “Tell me.” He snapped his teeth at her in a show of dominance. “You think you want to know my problem. You’re wrong.” Her tone dry, she said, “I’m so glad you know my mind better than I do.” “Very well. I need sex.” He threw the words at her as if they were weapons. “Badly.” Whoa. Blindside! Heart pounding, she jerked her hands away from him. “Sex...from me?” “Yesss.” A hiss. “Only from you.” Only. Amazing how one little word could send pleasure soaring through her, warming her. “You told me never to touch you.” Which she’d just done, she realized. My bad. “I’ve changed my mind.” His gaze dropped, lingered on her lips. Burning her... “But you and I...we’re a different species.” As if that mattered to her body. Gimme!
 He took a step closer, invading her personal space. “We’ll fit, I promise you.”
 Tristo hrmenych! The raspy quality of his voice, all smoke and gravel...she shivered with longing. Must resist his allure. But...but...why? Before she’d committed to Peter, she’d dated around, had made out in movie theaters, cars and on couches. She’d liked kissing and touching and “riding the belt buckle,” as her friends had called it. Then, after committing to Peter, she’d gifted him with her virginity. At first, he hadn’t known what to do with her—he’d been just as inexperienced—and she’d left each encounter disappointed. When finally she’d gathered the courage to tell him what she wanted, he’d satisfied her well. She missed sex. But connection...intimacy...she thought she missed those more. The dogs barked, jolting her from her thoughts. They’d cleaned their food bowls, and now wanted to play. She clasped Baden’s hand to lead him out of the kennel. He jerked away, severing contact. One action. Tons of hurt. “I’m allowed to touch you and you want to have sex with me, but you’re still disgusted by me.” She stomped outside the kennel, done with him. “Well, I’m leaving. Good riddance! Your do-what-I-say-or-else attitude was annoying, anyway.” He darted in front of her, stopping her. Breath caught in her throat as sunlight streamed over him, paying his chiseled features absolute tribute, making his bronzed skin glimmer. So beautiful. Too beautiful. “I’m not disgusted by you. You need me. I’ve come to accept it,” he admitted, looking away from her. “But being skin-to-skin with another is painful for me. We’ll have to proceed carefully. And you’ll get over your annoyance.” Another order! She would show him the error of his ways.

Coco?” I whispered, standing still, hardly able to believe it. “Oh—Coco?” “It is impossible to imagine,” a voice behind seemed to be saying from a great distance away, “how the dog could have reached this spot. For three days he has been immovable in his kennel.” I dropped on my knees, and took his paw in my hand. He gave the faintest wag of his tail, and tried to raise his head; but it fell back again, and he could only look at me. For an instant, for the briefest instant, we looked at each other, and while we looked his eyes glazed. “Coco—I’ve come back. Darling—I’ll never leave you any more——” I don’t know why I said these things. I knew he was dead, and that no calls, no lamentations, no love could ever reach him again. Sliding down on to the stone flags beside him, I laid my head on his and wept in an agony of bitter grief. Now indeed I was left alone in the world. Even my dog was gone.

For variety, she threw in the occasional thunderclap of real anger. I never knew when they were coming or what was going to provoke them. Spending time with her was like inviting an unexploded bomb to lunch or on holiday with you: I was always on edge, wondering what was going to set her off. Once it was the fact that I’d bought a kennel for the dogs we kept at the house in Nice. Once it was Billy Elliot, apparently the only thing I’d done in about ten years that she thought was any good. The musical had really taken off in a way that no one involved in it had predicted, not just in the UK but in countries where people had barely heard of the Miners’ Strike or the impact of Thatcherism on the British manufacturing industry: the story at its heart turned out to be universal. Mum went to see it in London dozens of times, until one afternoon, when the box office misplaced her tickets for the matinee and took five minutes to find them, something she decided I had deliberately, meticulously planned in an attempt to humiliate her.

He told how the light moved, he told of shadows, he told how the air was white and bright and pale; he told how for a little while Earth began to grow like Elfland, with a kinder light and the beginning of colours, and then just as one thought of home the light would blink away and the colours be gone. He told of stars. He told of cows and goats and the moon, three horned creatures that he found curious. He had found more wonder in Earth than we remember, though we also saw these things once for the first time; and out of the wonder he felt at the ways of the fields we know, he made many a tale that held the inquisitive trolls and gripped them silent upon the floor of the forest, as though they were indeed a fall of brown leaves in October that a frost had suddenly bound. They heard of chimneys and carts for the first time: with a thrill they heard of windmills. They listened spell-bound to the ways of men; and every now and then, as when he told of hats, there ran through the forest a wave of little yelps of laughter. Then he said that they should see hats and spades and dog-kennels, and look through casements and get to know the windmill; and a curiosity arose in the forest amongst that brown mass of trolls, for their race is profoundly inquisitive.

One spring day, when the daffodils were blowing on the Ingleside lawn, and the banks of the brook in Rainbow Valley were sweet with white and purple violets, the little, lazy afternoon accommodation train pulled into the Glen station. It was very seldom that passengers for the Glen came by that train, so nobody was there to meet it except the new station agent and a small black-and-yellow dog, who for four and a half years had met every train that had steamed into Glen St. Mary. Thousands of trains had Dog Monday met and never had the boy he waited and watched for returned. Yet still Dog Monday watched on with eyes that never quite lost hope. Perhaps his dog-heart failed him at times; he was growing old and rheumatic; when he walked back to his kennel after each train had gone his gait was very sober now—he never trotted but went slowly with a drooping head and a depressed tail that had quite lost its old saucy uplift. One passenger stepped off the train—a tall fellow in a faded lieutenant’s uniform, who walked with a barely perceptible limp. He had a bronzed face and there were some grey hairs in the ruddy curls that clustered around his forehead. The new station agent looked at him anxiously. He was used to seeing the khaki-clad figures come off the train, some met by a tumultuous crowd, others, who had sent no word of their coming, stepping off quietly like this one. But there was a certain distinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught his attention and made him wonder a little more interestedly who he was. A black-and-yellow streak shot past the station agent. Dog Monday stiff? Dog Monday rheumatic? Dog Monday old? Never believe it. Dog Monday was a young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating joy. He flung himself against the tall soldier, with a bark that choked in his throat from sheer rapture. He flung himself on the ground and writhed in a frenzy of welcome. He tried to climb the soldier’s khaki legs and slipped down and groveled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it must tear his little body in pieces. He licked his boots and when the lieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears in his eyes, succeeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms Dog Monday laid his head on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck, making queer sounds between barks and sobs. The station agent had heard the story of Dog Monday. He knew now who the returned soldier was. Dog Monday’s long vigil was ended. Jem Blythe had come home.

Faith!" Tracy called. "Your dog's got serious identity issues."... "Hey!" she said, picking Humperdinck up in her arms. "How'd you do at Tracy's" "He mounted the damn cat." Tracy set the travel kennel beside the couch. "You're going to have Siamese Yorkies if you don't do something about him.

What did he give you?' I asked Rosie. 'A birthday present,' Rosie replied. 'He said not to open it until December 8.' 'You're not going to listen to him, are you?' I asked. 'Of course I am,' Rosie said. 'What would be the point of opening it today?' I could not imagine such willpower ... 'Don't be disappointed,' I said, 'if there's something less than a diamond ring in that box.' 'Oh, I *know* what's in the box,' Rosie replied. 'I told him what I wanted.' 'Oh, my God, Rosie,' I exclaimed. 'You're impossible.' But my curiosity triumphed over my disapproval. 'What is it?' 'It's not a diamond ring,' she said smugly. 'It's a turquoise ring. Turquoise is my birthstone.' 'You're a con artist, Rosie,' I said, feeling equal parts of admiration and dismay. 'Do you think it's very nice of you to wheedle Mr. Jensen into buying you a turquoise ring?' 'He asked me what I wanted and I told him,' Rosie replied. 'I really don't see what's wrong with that. He didn't have to buy it if he didn't want to.' 'Maybe it isn't a turquoise ring at all,' I said. 'Maybe it's two pumpkin seeds.' 'Maybe it is,' Rosie agreed. 'We won't know until my birthday.' She ran off then to Mrs. Dunleigh and Buster, kneeling down beside the poor asthmatic creature and petting him as passionately as if he were the prize dog in the Westminster Kennel Club show.

Where are the ethical concerns, that so many people called animal lovers invoke, when you steal the children of wild dog mothers and other family members from right before their eyes? Do ethics always refer only to what people think appropriate for purely subjective reasons? Ultimately, our long-term research resulted in a very sad picture: With the exception of the random puppy, who today as an adult actually is interested in people, neither male Maccia nor the most of the other "rescued" dogs are socially and environmentally secure, but had remained shy and partly vegetate in kennels with empty eyes. Such dogs are neither fish nor fowl, although taken from the wild population in the early age of about eight to twelve weeks (except Maccia, whom Funny "rescued" at the age of four months, which is even more irresponsible).

The Platoon’s training facility was a low cinder-block building at the edge of a fenced grass field. The building was divided into two small offices and a makeshift kennel, where dogs could be penned between sessions. The Platoon’s daily shift didn’t begin until mid-afternoon, but several black-and-white K-9 cars already dotted the parking lot. A lone Bomb Detection K-9 truck stood out among them like a rhino among cattle. Scott

They went on to say that Coach would have to be kept in a kennel the entire day and only be let out to go to the bathroom. So even then they wanted to deny Coach the ability to do his job. It was insanity. Discrimination. Ignorance.

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Once the kennel clubs’ stud books were closed, dog breeding took on the characteristics of a secular religion, and a very hierarchical one at that.

So Blue sat down on the path and faced Grayson, and told him all about his world. He told him about the humans, his mother and sister, and how they went away. He told him about the long nights alone in the kennel, and the sadness that seemed to come from other dogs. All the while Grayson stared at him with his wide yellow eyes. He seemed amazed, and even sometimes frightened, as Blue recounted all the details. Finally, when he was finished telling his story, Grayson said 'You come from a scary world, Blue. A very scary and sad world indeed. It's so different from the magical forest where no one is ever alone, and no one is ever sad. ..

Three kinds of people are particularly pathetic: the powerful man who is out of power, the rich man with no money, and the learned man laughed at. " Yet these are those who badly want change! Some dogs sit satisfied in their kennels. But someone who last year drank ecstatic union, the pre-eternity agreement, who this year has a hangover from bad desire wine, the way he cries out for the majesty he's lost, give me his longing!

I was in Dachau and Belsen. I saw the gas chambers, where every day they poisoned thousands of Jews, men and women, the aged and the elderly, infants and children, led them naked as if they were going to take showers. The gas chambers are really built as if they are shower rooms, and the Nazis would peep in from the outside to see the Jews writhe and struggle in their death throes. I saw the furnaces in which they burned the bodies of hundreds and thousands and millions of Jews from all of the countries in Europe . . . I saw the gallows at Belsen, on which they would hang a number of Jews at once for sins such as coming two minutes late for forced labor, and all the other prisoners had to gather and watch the display. I saw the kennels where they bred the savage dogs that were trained to be set on the Jews on their way to work or to be killed. I saw the platforms, on which naked Jewish men and women were laid and the camp commanders would stand and shoot them in their backs, and I saw the few remnants, the survivors of the six million who were slaughtered in the sight of the world, an indifferent world, foreign, cold, cruel.10

Suddenly, I hear a sound, out in the gardens. How it thrills through me. It is approaching. Pad, pad, pad. A prickly sensation traverses my spine, and seems to creep across my scalp. The dog moves in his kennel, and whimpers, frightenedly. He must have turned round; for, now, I can no longer see the outline of his shining wound. “Outside, the gardens are silent, once more, and I listen, fearfully. A minute passes, and another; then I hear the padding sound, again. It is quite close, and appears to be coming down the gravelled path. The noise is curiously measured and deliberate. It ceases outside the door; and I rise to my feet, and stand motionless. From the door, comes a slight sound—the latch is being slowly raised. A singing noise is in my ears, and I have a sense of pressure about the head— “The latch drops, with a sharp click, into the catch. The noise startles me afresh; jarring, horribly, on my tense nerves. After that, I stand, for a long while, amid an ever growing quietness. All at once, my knees begin to tremble, and I have to sit, quickly. “An uncertain period of time passes, and, gradually, I begin to shake off the feeling of terror, that has possessed me. Yet, still I sit. I seem to have lost the power of movement. I am strangely tired, and inclined to doze. My eyes open and close, and, presently, I find myself falling asleep, and waking, in fits and starts.

My fears ran deep as though I were in a terrifying nightmare. I thought we’d left all the danger behind us in Urumqi, but was Gobi still at risk? If someone was making a play to claim Gobi on the Internet, wouldn’t it make sense for them to try and get Gobi in the flesh? If they had the dog, they could control the story. Was that why I was being followed by the men in suits and the gray sedan? I’d always thought they were from the government, but was it possible that they were actually reporting to someone else entirely? These thoughts stayed with me like a mosquito bite. I couldn’t stop returning to them long after my call with Jay ended. The more attention I paid them, the more inflamed and painful these dark fears became. I spent the entire flight home going over the same thoughts. Images of Gobi getting stolen from Kiki’s kennels flashed through my mind. Conspiracy theories about what might happen cast deep shadows over me. And a desperate desire to make sure that Gobi was okay left me feeling hollow inside. Added to that, I was thinking about work. I had been away from my job for almost two weeks, and I worried that I was pushing the limits of the company’s generosity. Everyone had been supportive throughout, and there was never any pressure to return from Urumqi, but I knew my colleagues were working extra hard to cover my workload in my absence. I didn’t want to abuse their kindness or take advantage of it. But I knew that, yet again, I had a choice to make. I could stick with the plan and leave Gobi in Kiki’s care for the next twenty-nine days while we waited for the all-clear on her

he renowned America painter Francis Davis Millet sent a letter from the Titanic’s last stop before attempting to cross the cold Atlantic Ocean. In it he wrote, “Looking over the passenger list I only find 3 or 4 people I know but there are a number of obnoxious, ostentatious American women, the scourge of any place they infest, and worse on shipboard than anywhere. Many of them carry tiny dogs, and lead husbands around like pet lambs.” It seemed that Francis didn’t think much of the women and their dogs that were of the snobbish set; however, it is safe to assume that there may have been at least a dozen dogs most of who were boarded in special kennels and others that shared the staterooms with their owners. Of these only 3 made it into the lifeboats with their owners and survived. We also know that there were chickens on the ship since later there was a claim made totaling $207.87 for lost chickens by a passenger named White. Other claims were made for lost dogs including a Chow-Chow dog that was valued by Harry Anderson for $50 and a claim of $750 by a passenger Daniel for the loss of his pedigree bulldog. Passenger Carter claimed $300 for the loss of his two dogs. There were a few pet birds on the ship and yes, the ship also had a cat named Jenny who was kept aboard as a working mascot. Jenny’s job was to keep down the ship’s population of rats and mice under control. However, it can be safely assumed that all of the rodents perished although one was seen running across the Third Class Dining Room just prior to the sinking.

Sami told her about the abuse that had been going on. All that she’d missed. How Tori was locked in a dog kennel and sprayed with a hose. The nudity. The withholding of food. And Ron Woodworth. “She did the same thing to Kathy, Nikki.

The dogs were kept in kennel buildings and in wire “runs” like so many pedigreed cattle—looked after by paid attendants, and trained to do nothing but to be the best-looking of their kind, and to win ribbons. Some of them did not know their owners by sight—having been reared wholly by hirelings. The body was everything; the heart, the mind, the namelessly delightful quality of the master-raised dog—these were nothing.

Now take the child from that mother, and place him somewhere else. Not in another home, among different people who love him—and who will be sources of mystery to him, too. Not with his Aunt Violet or with his grandmother, nor even with the kind old lady next door. Place him with—here is the crucial word—a professional. Place him in the context of a money-making—here is another crucial word—industry. Take him to those functional places with tellingly abstract and impersonal names, like the Early Learning Center, or the Tiny Tots Academy. Place him among professional caregivers, rather like people who will walk and feed your dog at the kennel, only much nicer. They will feed the child, will parcel out the child's day with appropriate Learning Activities, will enforce the scheduled Naptime, and will send him home clean, well-fed, generally contented, runny-nosed, patted, played with, and unloved. Thus will his natural hunger for love be filled instead with the pleasantly functional. He will have no complaints about the Choo-Choo Child Connection. It may, in fact, be the only time in his day that he will run into other children. And he will be all the readier for school. Not only because he will be able to say his ABC’s. He will be ready to see himself and everyone else in the school as ciphers in an institution built to serve a certain function. Charles

The next time a potential customer had to suddenly leave town, they’d fondly remember her kennel and take their dog in for boarding.

Crest Hill dog kennel:

At Crest Hill, your dog plays so hard all day, they are eager to lie down at night. We have three full-time staff members throwing tennis balls and enticing dogs to run and play so they’re far too distracted to realize they’re anywhere other than a second home. This means that by the end of the day all the other dogs are eager to sleep too, and so your dog rests comfortably. You won’t believe how quiet our kennels are once we put the dogs to bed at 8 p.m.

But petting a fretful puppy can actually create exactly the outcome you don’t want—a puppy that always gets upset whenever she is inside a car or her kennel.

The software was never sold to anyone, and indeed could not have been; it was so legally encumbered by that point that it would have been like trying to sell someone a rusty Volkswagen that had been dismantled and its parts hidden in attack dog kennels all over the world.

But, with Lad beside her, Baby is in just about as much danger as she would be with a guard of forty U. S. Regulars,” went on the Master. “Take my word for it. Come along, Lady. It’s the kennel for you for the next few weeks, old girl. Lad, when I get back, I’ll wash that shoulder for you.” With a sigh, Lad went over to the hammock and lay down, heavily. For the first time since Baby’s advent at The Place, he was unhappy—very, very unhappy. He had had to jostle and fend off Lady, whom he worshiped. And he knew it would be many a long day before his sensitively temperamental mate would forgive or forget. Meantime, so far as Lady was concerned, he was in Coventry.

The Alaskan Malamute is a purebred dog and one of the oldest of Alaska’s native sled dogs. The Alaskan Husky, in comparison, is a mix-breed who was bred exclusively for working and is not recognized by the American Kennel Club.

In quick succession came the sweeping of chimneys, the clearing of pantries, and the shrouding of furniture. It was just as if the family were returning to St. Petersburg for the season, except that the dogs were released from their kennels, the horses from their stables, and the servants from their duties. Then, having filled a single wagon with some of the finest of the Rostovs’ furniture, the Count bolted the doors and set out for Moscow.

I never questioned anything Yeshin did in those days. “Get your dogs and come take a walk with me,” had been enough to send me running from my room and down to the kennels, where I nearly tripped over the door in my haste. For all that his anger could frighten the wits out of me, time spent with my father was still a rare, precious thing.

Birds have nests Even the ants too Cows live in a pen Even the hogs do Dogs have their kennels And the roaming fowls, their roost The spider weaves a knot of webs and calls it home Flocks migrate seasonally So they may have a place to call home You see, the home is the nucleus of a society And is a right A God given innate right That need not be taught Fowls, beasts, insects, hedgehogs Rabbits and bears were not schooled Yet, they know the foundation Of building a society, a home People were battered, conquered Their habitats destroyed, stolen and possessed The loot fattened conquerors laughed and were merry “Ha, Ha, Ha, what a loot,” they toot Has this habit been buried and goodbyes read? Or is it camouflaged under a piece of linen? Crowing hellos every morning This habit is rampant and purposefully legalized Operating under a camouflaged linen Conquerors, shouting hypocritical hellos daily Destroying the nucleus of society, the home Bank of America is one such culprit operating Under such names as Specialized Loan Services Taking people’s homes, relegating them To less than dogs and insects How dare this facetious beast Continue its rampage of destruction? Having their helpless cronies do their dirty work? Whilst they appear as shining glory? How dare you? Hasten to make right your wrongs! Or May you find peace in Hell’s bosom May your deficit grow higher than Mount Everest May you be taken over by a conglomerate May your gains be eroded like sand pebbles May you never break even or see a profit May all your spoils be dragged from under your feet

If I had yelled at Cairo in that moment as he sat in his kennel, lightly wagging his tail, he would have assumed that merely sitting there was some sort of correctable offense. Which, of course, it was not. So instead, I swallowed my anger and embarrassment, gave him a pat on the head, and pulled him out of the kennel.

So Charlie decided to take back what rightfully belonged to her. She was no longer as naive as she had once been. She learned everything she could about banking and finance and figured out how to establish a secure Swiss bank account. After that, through Barracuda, she hacked into Lightning’s corporate bank accounts, siphoned out a considerable amount of money, and deposited it in her own account. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, she enacted a little more vengeance on Lightning. On the company’s homepage, she altered the slogan to “Committing Evil for 120 years” and animated their lightning logo so that it struck a kennel and set several cartoon dogs on fire. She also removed all the software products for sale on their website, replacing them with particularly horrible items like elephant tusks, rhino horns, and giant panda skins. Finally, she wiped out all of Lightning’s access codes.

Shouldn’t you be doing some work?” “I’ve got staff. Why keep a kennelful of dogs and bark myself?

Joseph stayed in the background as Samantha toured Bender’s Breeding Kennels. Jim Bender had greeted them warmly, his smile wide with pride as he showed them his facility. He brought them inside his house, showing off the awards, medals, and certificates of his dogs and their offspring that had gone on to win at shows and competitions. The ruddy-cheeked, barrel-chested man was dressed comfortably in jeans and a denim shirt with his kennel’s logo stitched over the pocket. His hair was still dark, although hints of silver were beginning to show

Norris met another survivor on board who told him that he had been bringing home a prized dog on the Titanic and had gone to the kennels and released all the dogs a half hour before the ship went under. Norris described to him how when he was swimming away from the sinking liner he had spied the black face of a French bulldog in the water.

I find myself with a day off. Rare. Unprecedented. Inconceivable. Mr. Fuchigami says I may go anywhere in Tokyo. And I know exactly where I want to spend my day: the Imperial Dog Kennels. Honestly, it's needed. It's really needed. Even though Akio told me The Tokyo Tattler was beneath me, it's been hard to get the article off my mind, hard not to overthink everything I might do wrong. Tomorrow kicks off a series of events. I'll accompany my father to assorted public outings. Cameras and press will be present, a soft launch of sorts before the prime minister's wedding. My nerves are frayed. What will the press say about me? I smiled too much? I didn't smile enough? A royal puppy pile is definitely in order.

They knew me as the one who got jacked up on rage and didn't know what to do with it, until a dog dug a ball from a corner of his kennel and brought it to my side, as thought to ask, "Have you thought of this?

Nordwind Kennels was the almost ten-acre wooded vacation resort for pets in the Bedford Hills estate area where they served gourmet dog food in temperature-controlled kennels into which they piped classical music. Everyone put their dogs there when they traveled to exotic locations to eat their own gourmet food and hear their own piped music.

As we pulled up to the kennel yard, I felt the sense of mystery that I always felt when I saw sled dogs run. It amazed me that they worked this happily and this hard for food, shelter, and human affection. Each day was an adventure for them, each practice a new challenge. What secret, held deep inside them, made them want to do this work? They were admirable creatures, beautiful to look at, breathtaking to watch. How lucky I felt that they were willing to pull me through the Alaskan woods and take me places I otherwise could never go. They were magnificent and they chose to love George and me. What human could ask for more?

According to the American Kennel Club committee currently appraising the breed's pending application, Miss Ruffles was a Texas cattle cur - a small but powerful dog with the speed and temperament for driving cows over a cliff, if need be. She stood about knee high, with a tough, brindle gray coat that bristled over her compact body. At one end, her tail was an ugly stub, at the other, her muzzle narrowed to a foxy point. The wide space between her pricked ears -one was floppy, the other constantly erect - made room for a quick, cunning brain. At home in Honeybell's mansion, she didn't match the Chinese porcelain or the silk-upholstered furniture. In fact, she was often caught chewing the chairs. But Miss Ruffles had a habit of grinning when she panted, and her intelligent eyes conveyed more personality than most people. She liked to have fun, and she didn't care who annoyed to get it.

These here city rooms ain’t big enough fer a decent kennel. I wish you could’a had him; but if you can’t, mebbe somebody else here’d like t’ own a dog that’s showed what a good friend he kin be- feedin’ an’ takin’ care o’ that pore little terrier. Speak up, folks. Here’s your chance fer a chum that’ll stick t’ you through thick an’ thin. Even” – he cleared his throat slightly – “even when your’re dead. Who says he’s theirs?

There’s no such word as “finish” in the vocabulary of a working kennel,’ I said. ‘By then, it’ll be feeding time. It’s always feeding time or cleaning-out time or walking time.’ ‘Or singing them to sleep time?’ ‘Now you’re getting it.’ I said.

Everywhere I went, it was Balto this and Balto that. Truth to tell, I knew Balto well enough. He was in my kennel. He was owned, bred, raised, and trained by Sepp, same as I was. Sepp called Balto nothing but a scrub freight dog. Don't get me wrong, he was a nice-enough fellow. But he was no racer. And he didn't have a whole lot going on upstairs. What he had was luck. It was luck, pure and simple, that he happened to be leading the team that made the last leg of the Serum Run.

Joe showed me his neat kennels and his complement of Labradors, and I met Mr and Mrs Fettle, the elderly couple who looked after the daily management. Joe seemed to have plenty of time to spare. ‘But,’ he said with a sideways glance, ‘you can fully train a Labrador while a spaniel’s still scratching itself.’ He was waiting for me to point out that the Labrador, being a retriever and therefore expected to do no more than wait beside his master until there was quarry to be fetched, had little to learn beyond what a puppy did naturally, while a spaniel had to hunt without chasing, distinguish wounded game from that which was sitting tight and resist the constant temptation to chase. There was even a vestige of truth in what he said. Because of their eagerness and sheer joie de vivre, spaniels can be hard work.

motioned to the owner. “What do you call this dog?” she asked. “She’s a Yorkie Poo. Six weeks. She just came in yesterday, and she’ll be gone in a few days. She’ll make a wonderful pet. I always recommend female dogs for women. You probably won’t believe this, but Yorkies are great little watchdogs.” Casey nodded. The moment the dog was placed in her hands, she knew she had a friend. She was so tiny she could fit in Casey’s raincoat pocket. She cradled the dog to her cheek. She felt so warm and so alive. Holding the puppy against her cheek, she meandered down the kitten aisle until she came to the last cage, where four kittens romped with a ball of string. “That one,” she said, pointing to a yellow tiger cat. “Good choice.” The owner beamed. The Yorkie licked at the kitten, who playfully swiped at her with one tiny paw. “They’ll get along, contrary to what you may have heard about dogs and cats. The kitten is just five weeks old, so the Yorkie will be boss, you’ll see. What else will you need?” Casey shrugged helplessly. “I never had an animal before. You tell me.” “Two kennels, two beds, leashes, food, a few toys, their own blankets, litter box and litter. It’s almost like outfitting a room for a new baby,” the owner said happily. “Can you deliver?” Casey asked anxiously. “Of course. If you like, I can drive you home with the animals. I’ll close the store for a little while. Do you live close by?” “Seventy-ninth, around the corner really. I appreciate it.

Staring into her coffee cup, Grace wondered how this had happened. How had she gone from her wonderful, sparkling life to where she was now, sitting in a VFW-turned-diner in the shrinking town of Monroe, Colorado, and dreading her upcoming shift at a dog kennel? “What’s wrong?” No. Please, no. Grace pushed her coffee out of the way so her forehead could hit the counter with a thump. Why do you hate me, God? “Are you sad because Oliver’s evil twin cheated on Constance with Tatiana?” “Stop!” Sitting up abruptly, Grace covered her ears and glared at Hugh. He looked all amused and hot and cheerful sitting there on the stool next to hers—right next to hers—and that made her even crankier.

But, of all Albert’s fine service to me, I believe that most appreciated was the morning coffee. Around daylight, or thereabouts, the fifty or more pointers and setters kenneled not too far beyond my open window would start setting up their chorus. In a very short while, they’d be really opening up full swing. And I liked that, too. At first, it merely served as a reminder¬—after a comfortable night—that day was dawning in great quail country, and there were some of America’s finest bird dogs to run—and excellent horses to ride.

There was no mistake. The area on the map was a match for Dr. Margery Crean’s home residence, a five-acre plot that included several outbuildings and a dog kennel. How had she missed this?

Meanwhile I was teaching him, by patient training, the few needful things I wanted him to learn. Also I was giving him sweeping uphill gallops to deepen his chest and broaden his shoulders and establish his straightness of limb and complete bodily poise I sought for him. Incidentally, I was giving him two raw eggs and a pound of fresh raw beef a day, in addition to his regular kennel rations of bread and milk and bones, and I was grooming his blanket-like coat as one would groom a racehorse.

For my part, I say that Hezekiah was no less of a hero than some of the grand dogs who wear medals, and he has proved to me that devotion and fidelity may be bred in the breasts of little mongrels of the streets as well as fine dogs born in costly kennels. It is the dog heart and not the pedigree that counts, and the next time I run across a poor, stray, frightened pup, looking as useless and forlorn as any creature can look, I shall say, “There goes a potential hero,” and I shall see what can be done for him.

Do you mean the kennel dogs need me to love them?” “To grow to their fullest stature, yes,” Mr. Connally answered. “A show dog who has never experienced the joy of loving a man or woman is an empty, unfulfilled dog.

Bobtails,” murmured the butcher caressingly – “Bobtails is good dogs!... ‘Member the little ‘un I bought from your kennel a year back?” “I do. Hope she turned out well – good worker? “Good worker! You bet. More sick nurse than cattle driver. Our Min’s fine! Y’see, Missus be bed-fast. Market days she’d lay there, sunup to sundown, alone. I got Min; then she wasn’t alone no more; Min told hold. Market days Min guards sheep from cougars, Min shoos coon from hen-house – Min, Min, Min. Min runs the whole works, Min do!

You know, the old Nesfield is going. It won't survive the coming war. And I for one shan't mourn it. A nasty rabbit-warren of a place. … And we shall have a sort of dog-kennel civilisation instead. Every man, every family-unit in a nice drudgery-proof kennel with plenty of bright paint and a good high fence around. Do you ever look at the book-stalls? All those magazines about homes and gardens and refrigerators and furniture-polish? It's not a dream world, like the cinema. It's a world on the verge of becoming real. And to my way of thinking, not a bad thing. But desperately insulating and unsociable. The rabbit-warren is at least a shoulder-rubbing sort of place, and that breeds communal feeling, ideas, discontents – the things that make the individual life get somewhere.

The breeder had pressured the new owners into showing the promising young puppy. After McDuff’s first blue ribbon in Puppy Class, they were hooked but for the wrong reasons. Most people are involved in with dogs because they had that one special dog in their past. That special dog had been a friend, a confidant and fellow warrior against life’s travails. They now searched for that special dog once again but the search was for a memory which, like dreams, is vapor and shadow. Alice and Arnold needed the status of owning an American Kennel Club Champion. The man, more than the woman, had no particular love for the breed or dogs in general. McDuff had, in fact been a big disappointment because of the legendary Airedale WILL. The Airedale WILL compares to the proverbial immovable object meeting the irresistible force.

One spring day, when the daffodils were blowing on the Ingleside lawn, and the banks of the brook in Rainbow Valley were sweet with white and purple violets, the little, lazy afternoon accommodation train pulled into the Glen station. It was very seldom that passengers for the Glen came by that train, so nobody was there to meet it except the new station agent and a small black and yellow dog, who for four and a half long years had met every train that had steamed into Glen St. Mary. Thousands of trains had Dog Monday met and never had the boy he waited and watched for returned. Yet still Dog Monday watched on with eyes that never quite lost hope. Perhaps his dog-heart failed him at times; he was growing old and rheumatic; when he walked back to his kennel after each train had gone his gait was very sober now—he never trotted but went slowly with a drooping head and a depressed tail that had quite lost its old saucy uplift. One passenger stepped off the train—a tall fellow in a faded lieutenant’s uniform, who walked with a barely perceptible limp. He had a bronzed face and there were some grey hairs in the ruddy curls that clustered around his forehead. The new station agent looked at him anxiously. He was used to seeing the khaki-clad figures come off the train, some met by a tumultuous crowd, others, who had sent no word of their coming, stepping off quietly like this one. But there was a certain distinction of bearing and features in this soldier that caught his attention and made him wonder a little more interestedly who he was. A black and yellow streak shot past the station agent. Dog Monday stiff? Dog Monday rheumatic? Dog Monday old? Never believe it. Dog Monday was a young pup, gone clean mad with rejuvenating joy. He flung himself against the tall soldier, with a bark that choked in his throat from sheer rapture. He flung himself on the ground and writhed in a frenzy of welcome. He tried to climb the soldier’s khaki legs and slipped down and grovelled in an ecstasy that seemed as if it must tear his little body in pieces. He licked his boots and when the lieutenant had, with laughter on his lips and tears in his eyes, succeeded in gathering the little creature up in his arms Dog Monday laid his head on the khaki shoulder and licked the sunburned neck, making queer sounds between barks and sobs. The station agent had heard the story of Dog Monday. He knew now who the returned soldier was. Dog Monday’s long vigil was ended. Jem Blythe had come home.

That is why I have to-day adopted the view that a dog working in transport service is preferable to the lazy kennel dog, because the latter degenerates, while the former makes himself useful and does not lose his soul.

No apology for keeping a mongrel is necessary. He is a good dog and a fair dog. Can more be said? He ought not to be maligned. I have known many a loveable mongrel. If he is kept clean, well housed, properly fed, and is of decent habit, he may be as true a companion as an aristocratic champion.

I hurried away from Brewster. When I reached my girl, the goslings rushed over to strain against the wire of the kennel, sticking their beaks out and peeping at me with their tiny voices. Mom came back in the room, carrying a box. “I could hear them all the way from the supply kitchen,” she remarked. “They seem really upset that Lily is out and they’re not. But I knew you would want them to stay in the kennel; they were so hard to catch the first time.