Injured Dog Quotes

Derek caught my arm again as I started to move--at this rate, it was going to be as sore as my injured one. "Dog," he said, jerking his chin toward the fenced yard. "It was inside earlier." Expecting to see a Doberman slavering at the fence, I followed his gaze to a little puff of white fur, the kind of dog women stick in their purses. It wasn't even barking, just staring at us, dancing in place. "Oh, my God! It's a killer Pomeranian." I glanced up at Derek. "It's a tough call, but I think you can take him.

Jimmy’s dog tag clinked as he almost slid right into her. Teenagers wore dog tags in case New York was bombed and they needed to be identified if killed or injured. Mrs. McCorkle, the O’Shaughnessy’s immediate next door neighbor, had insisted on a dog tag for Jimmy.

The fight unfolded like background noise. White noise. In the foreground, even with his ghastly pale face looking dead in my hands, my fingers clenching his ragged hair, all I could see was random images of Fang, not dead. Fang telling me stupid fart jokes from the dog crate next to mine at the school, trying to make me laugh. Fang asleep at Jeb's old house, and me jumping wildly on his bed to wake him up. Him pretending to be asleep. Me laughing when I "accidentally" kicked him where it counts. Him dumping me off the bed. Fang gagging on my first attempt at cooking dinner after Jeb disappeared. Him spitting out the mac and cheese. Me dumping the rest of the bowl on him in response. Fang on the beach, that first time he was badly injured. Me realizing how I felt about him. Fang kissing me. So close I couldn't even see his dark eyes anymore. The first time. The second time. The third. I could always remember each and every one of them. Would always remember them. Fang. Not. Dead.

In my mind there is a scale. I do not know how many small lives add up to a big one, or if there is a formula to work it out. How many cats do I have to save? How many dogs? How many injured animals on the road do I have to drag to safety, their blood on my hands, their wild-smelling hair on my clothes?

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 wouldn’t mind being injured if that would bring Satsuko pleasure, and a mortal injury would be all the better. Yet to think of being trampled to death, not by her but by her dog…

Do not mistake my compassion for injured creatures as any kind of personal interest, Mr. Devlin. I once bandaged the paw of a stray dog I found in the village. I would place you in the same category as he." "My angel of mercy.

If you saw a dog that was hit by a car in the street, lying there, hurt, in pain, broken... would you pick it up? Caress it? Reassure it? Then just throw it back in the street? Some people do that, just in different ways... to other people. Whis is worse? The one who causes the intial pain and suffering without stopping or the one who intentionally gives false hope, then injures more, and then just abandons?

You watch cute dog videos today. Tomorrow you discover videos of injured animals. Then you discover videos on animal cruelty. Then you get angry. Then you start seeing cruelty everywhere. News and incidents of cruelty reach you before anyone else. You start going deeper and deeper into an endless spiral.

there. Before they eat my brain and start heading for my heart.” He whimpered, a sound that seemed to Mark more like it would come from an injured dog than from a human. “What symptoms are you feeling?” Lana asked. “What happened to Misty?” Mark watched as the Toad raised his hands up and pressed them against the sides of his head. Even his silhouette was creepy doing such a thing.

It’s much more honest to deceive a man than to break up his family life and injure his reputation. I understand.

There is no heaven with a little hell in it - no plan to retain this or that of the devil in our hearts or our pockets. Out Satan must go, every hair and feather! ... There is no clothing in a robe of imputed righteousness, the poorest of legal cobwebs spun by spiritual spiders. ... Christ is our righteousness, not that we should escape punishment, still less escape being righteous, but as the live potent Creator of righteousness in us, so that we, with our wills receiving His spirit, shall like Him resist unto blood, striving against sin; shall know in ourselves, as He knows, what a lovely thing is righteousness, what a mean, ugly, unnatural thing is unrighteousness. He is our righteousness, and that righteousness is no fiction, no pretense, no imputation. ... Any system which tends to persuade men that there is any salvation but that of becoming righteous even as Jesus is righteous; that a man can be made good, as a good dog is good, without his own willed share in the making; that a man is saved by having his sins hidden under a robe of imputed righteousness - that system, so far this tendency, is of the devil and not of God. Thank God, not even error shall injure the true of heart. They grow in truth, and as love casts out fear, so truth casts out falsehood.

Remus's green eyes flashed gold at the sight of a familiar black dog hovering in the air, bound with magic. The girl he had come to recognise as Hermione was being threatened, and she looked far too skinny, wearing clothes that looked as though they had not been washed in some time. She looked like she had been chewed up by war. Innocent and injured, and Remus realised that this was why his Mia was who she was—she had been tempered by fire.

electrical wires dragged down by the weight of the ice and flickering balefully, a row of sleet-covered planes stranded in an airport, a huge truck that’s jackknifed and tipped over and is lying on its side with smoke coming out. An ambulance is on the scene, a fire truck, a huddle of raingear-clad operatives: someone’s been injured, always a sight to make the heart beat faster. A policeman appears, crystals of ice whitening his moustache; he pleads sternly with people to stay inside. It’s no joke, he tells the viewers. Don’t think you can brave the elements! His frowning, frosted eyebrows are noble, like those on the wartime bond-drive posters from the 1940s. Constance remembers those, or believes she does. But she may just be remembering history books or museum displays or documentary films: so hard, sometimes, to tag those memories accurately. Finally, a minor touch of pathos: a stray dog is displayed, semi-frozen, wrapped in a child’s pink nap blanket. A gelid baby

Blaine: ONE MOMENT. I MUST ADJUST THE VOLUME FOR YOU TO ENJOY THE FULL EFFECT. There was a brief, whispery hooting sound (a kind of mechanical throat-clearing) and then they were assaulted by a vast roar. It was water (a billion gallons a minute, for all Jake knew) pouring over the lip of the chasm and falling perhaps two thousand feet into the deep stone basin at the base of the falls. Streamers of mist floated past the blunt almost-faces of the jutting dogs like steam from the vents of hell. The level of sound kept climbing. Now Jake's whole head vibrated with it, and as he clapped his hands over his ears, he saw Roland, Eddie, and Susannah doing the same. Oy was barking, but Jake couldn't hear him. Susannah's lips were moving again, and again he could read the words (STOP IT, BLAINE, STOP IT!) but he couldn't hear them any more than he could hear Oy's barks, although he was sure Susannah was screaming at the top of her lungs. And still Blaine increased the sound of the waterfall, until Jake could feel his eyes shaking in their sockets and he was sure his ears were going to short out like overstressed stereo speakers. Then it was over. They still hung above the moon-misty drop, the moonbows still made their slow and dreamlike revolutions before the curtain of endlessly falling water, the wet and brutal stone faces of the dog-guardians continued to jut out of the torrent, but that world-ending thunder was gone. For a moment Jake thought what he'd feared had happened, that he had gone deaf. Then he realized that he could hear Oy, still barking, and Susannah crying. At first these sounds seemed distant and flat, as if his ears had been packed with cracker-crumbs, but then they began to clarify. Eddie put his arm around Susannah's shoulders and looked toward the route map. Eddie: Nice guy, Blaine. Blaine: (his booming voice sounds laughing and injured simultaneously) I MERELY THOUGHT YOU WOULD ENJOY HEARING THE SOUND OF THE FALLS AT FULL VOLUME. I THOUGHT IT MIGHT HELP YOU TO FORGET MY REGRETTABLE MISTAKE IN THE MATTER OF EDITH BUNKER. My fault, Jake thought. Blaine may just be a machine, and a suicidal one at that, but he still doesn't like to be laughed at. He sat beside Susannah and put his own arm around her. He could still hear the Falls of the Hounds, but the sound was now distant.

And then we heard Aled scream. It wasn’t really a scream. It was more of a long wail. I’d never heard anyone sound like that in real life before. I pelted to our front door and opened it, just as Aled opened his and stumbled out of it. I ran to meet him and he was staggering and for a minute I thought he was injured, but I couldn’t see anything physically wrong with him except the fact that his face was contorted because he was sobbing uncontrollably, and I caught him in my arms just as he sank to the ground on the kerb, making the most painful noises I’d ever heard, like he’d been shot, like he was dying … Then he started to cry out, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no …” the tears falling continuously from his eyes, and I started to ask him frantically what it was, what had happened, what had she done, but he just shook his head over and over and choked like he couldn’t form any words even if he wanted to, and then I heard it … “Sh-she killed him— Sh-she killed him.” I felt like I was going to be sick. “Who? What happened, tell me …” “My … my dog … my dog Brian …” And then he started to sob again, so loudly, like he’d never cried before in his whole life. I stayed very still. “She … killed … your dog …?” “She s-said … she couldn’t look after him … because I was gone, and he— He was getting old, s-so She— She just— She went and … had him put down.” “No …” He let out another wail and pressed his face into my jumper. I didn’t want to believe anyone was capable of doing something like that. But we were sitting under the streetlamps and Aled was shaking in my arms and this was real, this was happening. She was taking everything Aled had and burning it. She was burning him, slowly, until he died.

Oh, that’s terrible, that’s not nice.” We immediately stopped what we were doing in the kitchen and hurried through to the lounge, not quite believing that our son was actually sounding as though he felt sorry for someone. On the screen, there was a badly injured woman in a mangled car. We eavesdropped as Dale went on, “Oh, dear, Henry, that’s a shame.” Jamie and I looked at each other in amazement—at long last our son was showing empathy—but with impeccable timing came Dale’s punchline: “It’s all broke, Henry. Poor car.” We resigned ourselves to a slightly longer wait for empathy. Despite our continued efforts to engage with Dale

Compare this scenario to a recent case in Bremerton, a city in western Washington State. An African-American man, waiting for his girlfriend to get off work, was “insulted and challenged” by three drunk young white men who “used racial epithets.” One of the young men ordered his pit bull to attack. The African-American “pulled a handgun from his car” and fired it to defend himself against the dog. “By the time deputies arrived, things had calmed down, the black man was found to have a permit to carry the gun,” and he declined to press charges against his attackers. Fortunately, no one was injured.81 Without a gun, it is not obvious what else the African-American man could have done. He was outnumbered three to one and attacked by a pit bull, and there were no police nearby to help.

Miss Addie!” Edward, too, rushed to her side, but Gideon reached her first and pranced around her. “I’m all right,” she said as John arrived. He knelt beside her and slipped his arm around her. “Are you injured?” She had no idea of her true condition with him so close. Assessing the pain level, she leaned her head against his shoulder. His presence was the best medicine. “I-I don’t think so.” Edward threw himself atop her, and she pulled him onto her lap when she realized he was crying. “It’s okay, darling.” “You’re bleeding,” the child wailed. John moved away, and she hugged Edward, relishing the little-boy scent of grass and dog. “It’s merely a scratch, Edward. Proof of valor.” John was still near enough that she could smell his bay rum hair tonic. “I should call the doctor,” John said. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “No, no, I think I can get up with your assistance.” Aware she was showing more of her leg than was seemly, Addie flipped her skirt into place. She brushed a kiss across Edward’s cheek and scooted him onto the grass. “Papa’s going to help me up.” She grasped John’s arm and allowed him to lift her to her feet. “Does anything hurt?” he asked. She smiled into his face. “Only my pride.” “Let’s get you inside.” She glanced at the heap of wheels and metal. “No, I want to get back on the bicycle.” His mouth gaped. “You aren’t afraid?” “I’m terrified. But if I don’t get back on now, I might never do it. The fall will expand in my mind. I want to learn this.” She released his arm and stepped away, though she preferred to stay close to him. “The bicycle appears unharmed.” “But you’re not. You’re bleeding.” She bent her elbow up to have a look. “As I said, it’s merely a scratch.

Gentlemen, in a few minutes you are to deal your blow, but in receiving your verdict I shall at least have the satisfaction of having injured the existing society, this cursed society in which one may see a single man uselessly spending enough to feed thousands of families; an infamous society that permits a few individuals to monopolize all social wealth, while there are hundreds of thousands of unfortunates who have not even the bread that is not refused to dogs, and while entire families are committing suicide for want of the necessities of life. Ah, gentlemen, if the governing classes could go down among the unfortunates! But no, they prefer to remain deaf to their appeals. It seems that a fatality impels them, like the royalty of the eighteenth century, toward the precipice that will engulf them, for woe on those who remain deaf to the cries of the starving, woe on those who, believing themselves of superior essence, assume the right to exploit those beneath them! There comes a time when the people no longer reason; they rise like a hurricane, and pass away like a torrent. Then we see bleeding heads impaled on pikes

I squinted. “What’s that on your hand, Barrons? Blood?” He started, glanced at me, then at his hand. “Ah yes,” he said, as if remembering, “I was out for a walk. There was a badly injured dog in the street. I returned it to its owner’s shop to die.

If Glenn related to anything outside of music, it was animals. When he bicycled through the countryside near his parents’ lakeside vacation cottage outside of Toronto, he sang to the cows. His pets included rabbits, turtles, a fully functioning skunk, goldfish named Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, and Haydn, and a parakeet named Mozart. There was also a series of beloved dogs: a big Newfoundland named Buddy, an English setter named Sir Nickolson of Garelocheed—or Nick for short—and, later, Banquo, a collie. One of Glenn’s childhood dreams was to someday create a preserve for old, injured, and stray animals on Manitoulin Island, north of Toronto, where he wanted to live out his old age by himself, surrounded by animals.

An injured dog, a sick kitten, a horse in labor, it didn't matter... Dell gave his heart and soul, and in less time than it took humans to shake hands, an animal would become part of Dell's pack for life.

Luna, my neighbor, is the one who usually saves the injured birds, frogs, cats, stray dogs, and there was even a deer once.

insurance against everything such as being trampled on by a herd of elephants, stung by a swarm of bees, injured by a meteorite falling out of the sky or death from contracting beriberi.

Q: Why did the dog’s owner think his dog was a great mathematician? A: He asked the dog what six minus six was and the dog said nothing. Q: Why did the injured dog say he was an actor? A: His leg was in a cast.

Wow. They really look to be in love,” Alex sighed, propping her chin on her hand and watching them cuddle, that damn dog wiggling between them. “They are,” Duncan admitted. “They’ve gone through a lot together and I’m happy for them. I think they’ll be a strong couple and excellent parents.” “Oh, she’s pregnant? That’s so wonderful,” she sighed. Duncan swallowed. Yup. Another mark on the con side. She wanted kids. He’d always wanted kids, but that had been before he’d gone to war and seen so many young men being killed over there. When Melanie had shown up at Walter Reed after he’d been injured and he realized she was pregnant, for just the tiniest fraction of a second he had felt pure joy. Then he’d realized there had been no earthly way he could have put her in that condition and the disappointment had gutted him. Melanie had cheated on him with another man, but he felt strangely detached about the cheating itself. By that time he’d seen and learned a lot about being in a relationship while in the military. Anyway, that had been many years ago. He was older and wiser now, and he wouldn’t be letting himself fall for a woman practically young enough to be his daughter and who wanted kids. God. He’d be an idiot to get involved with her. Melanie had taught him well to guard his heart. He

Charles, a footman who had once worked on his father's farm and who loved animals, appeared and came over to help her prepare dishes of boiled chicken and brown rice for the cats and dogs waiting eagerly at their feet. When guests were staying, Charles often assisted with the care of her furry brood. Without asking, he set to work, even taking a few moments to gather fresh meat scraps for Aeolus, her wounded hawk, and cut-up apple and beetroots for Poppy, a convalescing rabbit who had an injured leg. He gave her several more apple quarters for the horses, who got jealous if she didn't bring them treats as well. Once all her cats and dogs were fed, Esme set off for the stables, laden pail in hand, Burr trotting at her heels. She stopped along the way to chat with the gardener and his assistant, who gave her some timothy grass, comfrey and lavender to supplement the hay she regularly fed Poppy.

Obama spoke of being inspired by the courage of Black civil rights activists and freedom riders, who faced dog attacks, fire hoses, and police brutality, and “who risked everything to advance democracy.” Yet under his watch, private security working on behalf of DAPL unleashed attack dogs on unarmed Water Protectors who were attempting to stop bulldozers form destroying a burial ground; Morton County sheriff’s deputies sprayed Water Protectors with water cannons in freezing temperatures, injuring hundreds; and police officers and private security guards brutalized hundreds of unarmed protestors. All of this violence was part of an effort to put a pipeline through Indigenous lands.

When young men get injured in battle, they don’t cry for their mums because they want to bury their faces in their bosoms.  They want something familiar in a foreign situation.  Then, when they hear my booming voice, calling them a worthless cunt, they find something familiar in it.

When I reach the house, I find Felicity in the surgery with Monty who is—miraculously—awake. It’s a drowsy consciousness, but still, eyes open, sitting up, sort of—propped up—with his injured leg elevated, while Felicity is curled at the other end of the cot, her bare feet against the headboard, picking at the split ends of her plait. They look like children, wedged into one bed, whispering late into the night in the glow of a sputtering candle. Monty tilts his face away from her, and I think maybe he isn’t paying attention, then I realize he’s turned his deaf ear away to be certain he hears her. I watch them for a moment, wondering if they ever passed their nights like this back in Cheshire and feeling suddenly like a dog that has been tied up outside the shop.

positive impact on my recovery. (It also helps you sleep if used before bed.) Warning: Start slow. I tried to copy Amelia and did 20-plus minutes my first session. The next day, I felt like I’d been put in a sleeping bag and swung against a tree for a few hours. Rolling your foot on top of a golf ball on the floor to increase “hamstring” flexibility. This is infinitely more helpful than a lacrosse ball. Put a towel on the floor underneath the golf ball, lest you shoot your dog’s eye out. Concept2 SkiErg for training when your lower body is injured. After knee surgery, Amelia used this low-impact machine to maintain cardiovascular endurance and prepare for the 2014 World’s Toughest Mudder, which she won 8 weeks post-op. Kelly Starrett (page 122) is also a big fan of this device. Dry needling: I’d never heard of this before meeting Amelia. “[In acupuncture] the goal is not to feel the needle. In dry-needling, you are sticking the needle in the muscle belly and trying to get it to twitch, and the twitch is the release.” It’s used for super-tight, over-contracted muscles, and the needles are not left in. Unless you’re a masochist, don’t have this done on your calves. Sauna for endurance: Amelia has found using a sauna improves her endurance, a concept that has since been confirmed by several other athletes, including cyclist David Zabriskie, seven-time U.S. National Time Trial Championship winner. He considers sauna training a more practical replacement for high-altitude simulation tents. In the 2005 Tour de France, Dave won the Stage 1 time trial, making him the first American to win stages in all three Grand Tours. Zabriskie beat Lance Armstrong by seconds, clocking an average speed of 54.676 kilometers per hour (!). I now use a sauna at least four times per week. To figure out the best protocols, I asked another podcast guest, Rhonda Patrick. Her response is on page 7. * Who do you think of when you hear the word “successful”?

on a seagull poo–like texture when mixed into cold water. Amelia saved my palate and joints by introducing me to the Great Lakes hydrolyzed version (green label), which blends easily and smoothly. Add a tablespoon of beet root powder like BeetElite to stave off any cow-hoof flavor, and it’s a whole new game. Amelia uses BeetElite pre-race and pre-training for its endurance benefits, but I’m much harder-core: I use it to make tart, low-carb gummy bears when fat Tim has carb cravings. RumbleRoller: Think foam roller meets monster-truck tire. Foam rollers have historically done very little for me, but this torture device had an immediate positive impact on my recovery. (It also helps you sleep if used before bed.) Warning: Start slow. I tried to copy Amelia and did 20-plus minutes my first session. The next day, I felt like I’d been put in a sleeping bag and swung against a tree for a few hours. Rolling your foot on top of a golf ball on the floor to increase “hamstring” flexibility. This is infinitely more helpful than a lacrosse ball. Put a towel on the floor underneath the golf ball, lest you shoot your dog’s eye out. Concept2 SkiErg for training when your lower body is injured. After knee surgery, Amelia used this low-impact machine to maintain cardiovascular endurance and prepare for the 2014 World’s Toughest Mudder, which she won 8 weeks post-op. Kelly Starrett (page 122) is also a big fan of this device. Dry needling: I’d never heard of this before meeting Amelia. “[In acupuncture] the goal is not to feel the needle. In dry-needling, you are sticking the needle in the muscle belly and trying to get it to twitch, and the twitch is the release.” It’s used for super-tight, over-contracted muscles, and the needles are not left in. Unless you’re a masochist, don’t have this done on your calves. Sauna for endurance: Amelia has found using a sauna improves her endurance, a concept that has since been confirmed by several other athletes, including cyclist David Zabriskie, seven-time U.S. National Time Trial Championship winner. He considers sauna training a more practical replacement for high-altitude simulation tents. In the 2005 Tour de France, Dave won the Stage 1 time trial, making him the first American to win stages in all three Grand Tours. Zabriskie beat Lance Armstrong by seconds, clocking an average speed of 54.676 kilometers per hour (!). I now use a sauna at least four times per week. To figure out the best protocols, I asked

He was a well-educated, successful, thirty-five-year-old business owner who was sardonic, easily stressed, and disillusioned with the human race. He didn’t like children and he made fun of old people. His laundry list of phobias included drinking tap water, walking through grocery stores, and driving on highways. He smoked too much and suffered incapacitating panic attacks. Yet as founder of Stray Rescue in St. Louis, he spent his days chasing wild, injured, diseased dogs that no one else would touch.

One of the secrets of search and rescue is this: when we are searching for the lost, when we are rescuing the injured, usually we’re having a pretty good time. We’re out with SAR friends; we’re having an adventure; we’re trying to save the world (or at least a small part of it). And yet, at the same time, we reflect that every mission may be a life-changing tragedy for families left behind.

Office and Classroom Tools—Have the child cut with scissors; use a stapler and hole puncher; draw with crayons and chalk; paint with brushes, feathers, sticks, and eyedroppers; squeeze glue onto paper in letters or designs, sprinkle sparkles on the glue, and shake off the excess; and wrap boxes with brown paper, tape, and string. MOTOR PLANNING Jumping from a Table—Place a gym mat beside a low table and encourage the child to jump. After each landing, stick tape on the mat to mark the spot. Encourage the child to jump farther each time. Walking Like Animals—Encourage the child to lumber like a bear, on all fours; a crab, from side to side on all fours; a turtle, creeping; a snake, crawling; an inchworm, by stretching flat and pulling her knees toward her chest; an ostrich, while grasping her ankles; a duck, squatting; a frog, squatting and jumping; a kangaroo or bunny, jumping; a lame dog, with an “injured” leg; a gorilla, bending her knees; a horse, galloping. Playground Games—Remember Simon Says, Ring-Around-the-Rosy, The Hokey-Pokey, London Bridge, Shoo Fly, and Mother, May I? Insy-Outsy—Teach the child to get in and out of clothes, the front door, and the car. With a little help, the child may become able to perform these tasks independently, even if it takes a long time!

Hi. My name is Sue. Have some Gu, Let me put this under you. IF you ask anyone who has ever taken a wilderness medicine course from me, this is how they remember me. This is what we say to someone we find injured or lost in the backcountry. Introduce yourself, add sugars and insulation to the patient.

How on earth is it that the Irish are today fighting tooth and nail not to enter the war on England's side, after being subjected to British "protection" and blessing for over 700 years? In this connection, we may recall the Irish national rising in 1916. Instead of giving the Irish self-government, England "protected" them by bombing Dublin, deporting 1,000 national Irish and executing their leaders. It was Churchill who was mainly responsible for the cruel mistreatment of the Irish with burning, looting and killing without law and order, because he had said that the Irish had to be put down like mad dogs. Only de Valera was spared, not out of human kindness, but solely because he was an American citizen, and one was anxious to injure the friendship with the United States