Jay's Dog Quotes

I liked music that I didn't have to think about, and most country songs spelled it right out for the listener. The girl was mad because the guy cheated, the guy was mad his pickup got trashed, everyone was sad the dog died, and Taylor Swift had about as much luck with men as I did.

When you spent your entire career on the fringes of violence, the dogs helped remind you that you were still human

Why wasn't my time spent helping people instead of a puppy? I don't know and I don't care but at least I saved something.

a pockmarked boy with a scraggy ponytail and four tiny rings in his right ear leaned against the wall of the armory, holding his dog on a leash, a sign hanging from his neck: PLEASE FEEL FREE TO PET MY DOG. IT MAY MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER.

All businesses -- no matter if they make dog food or software -- don't sell products, they sell solutions.

I always wondered what your type was, but I never imagined it would be a hard-core rocker!” Here we go. I had been hoping he'd be too sleepy for this conversation. “He's not my type. If I had a type it would be...nice. Not some hotheaded, egocentric male slut.” “Did you just call him a male slut?” Jay laughed. “Dang, that's, like, the worst language I've ever heard you use.” I glowered at him, feeling ashamed, and he laughed even harder. “Oh, hey, I've got a joke for you. What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?” He raised his eyebrows and I shrugged. “I don't know. What?” “A drummer!” I shook my head while he cracked up at his joke for another minute before hounding me again about Kaidan. “All right, so you talked about my CDs, you had some cultural confusion with some of his lingo, then you talked about hot dogs? That can't be everything. You looked seriously intense.” “That's because he was intense, even though we weren't really talking about anything. He made me nervous.” “You thought he was hot, didn't you?” I stared out my window at the passing trees and houses. We were almost to school. “I knew it!” He smacked the steering wheel, loving every second of my discomfort. “This is so weird. Anna Whitt has a crush.” “Fine, yes. He was hot. But it doesn't matter, because there's something about him I don't like. I can't explain it. He's...scary.” “He's not the boy next door, if that's what you mean. Just don't get the good-girl syndrome.” “What's that?” “You know. When a good girl falls for a bad boy and hopes the boy will fall in love and magically want to change his ways. But the only one who ends up changing is the girl.

...in the woods, if you stopped, if you grew still, you'd hear a whole new set of sounds, wind rasping through silhouetted leaves and the cries and chatter of blue jays and brown thrashers and redbirds and sparrows, the calling of crows and hawks, squirrels barking, frogs burping, the far braying of dogs, armadillos snorkeling through dead leaves...

Gilbert tried to reason with the smoke hound. “I am a frog,” he explained. “You are a puff of black smoke shaped like a dog. We are not related.

Legends are born to every generation.

Every marriage that ends in divorce; every serviceman who kills him- or herself; and every time a young warrior experience substance abuse issues, we witness a casualty of war.

It’s a neighborhood where every dad has at least one job and where parents often end conversations with the words: no guts, no glory.

He begged before he died, you know. Your mighty Tolyev. You all beg, Nikita. That's what they don't tell you. When you see the end coming, past all the bluff and bluster, the thees and thous, in that final moment, you all beg like fucking children. And you die like fucking dogs.

All of us have an undeniable urge to be loved and to give love in return. In that regard, you can’t do much better than a dog.

I'm like a dog. I never speak but I understand.

I have convictions, and the courage of my convictions allows me to overcome my fears and act in a courageous manner...

If we are lucky, we get to live very long and healthy lives. If we are even luckier, we will be astonished by the sight of blue jays all the way through.

So your masters set you hunting someone and away you go? Like a dog?" "Never understood that," the Preacher sighed. "How callin' someone a dog is supposed to be some kinda insult. I seen men die, Snowflake. I seen dogs die. Believe me when I say, dogs tend to go with more dignity.

I swear, I don't understand white people. Breadcrumbs on macaroni, kissing dogs on the mouth--" "Treating their dogs like they're their kids," I add. "Yeah!" says DeVante. "Purposely doing shit that could kill them, like bungee jumping." "Calling Target 'Tar-jay,' like that makes it fancier," says Seven. "Fuck," Chris mutters. "That's what my mom calls it." Seven and I bust out laughing.

Jason nodded. “I’d be willing to give it a shot, although ideally, I would love to be out walking my dog and run into some cute guy walking his dog. Naturally that would lead to us talking. Then we’d start meeting in that same place every day, like little ten-minute dates. After weeks of this, maybe even months, we’d agree to meet without the dogs. Unchaperoned, so to speak. That would be romantic. Way more so than a party or a bar.

They are the pure wild hunters of our world. They are swift and merciless upon the backs of rabbits, mice, voles, snakes, even skunks, even cats sitting in dusky yards, thinking peaceful thoughts. I have found the headless bodies of rabbits and blue jays, and known it was the great horned owl that did them in, taking the head only, for the owl has an insatiable craving for the taste of brains. I have walked with prudent caution down paths at twilight when the dogs were puppies. I know this bird. If it could, it would eat the whole world.

I would tell you some of the bizarre things I have heard otherwise rational philosophers say about parrots, but it would probably be actionable if I did so in print, and they would deny it anyway. A human philosopher thinks that no one notices when she starts putting on airs. A parrot doesn’t think this way. You may say that a parrot puts on airs. Well, a parrot does. But a parrot knows he’s putting on airs; he’s not like a blue jay that way, it’s completely different. A blue jay gets all mixed up in his thinking because he starts believing his own PR, but a parrot is more cool-headed than that, which is why you can win an argument with a blue jay and never with a parrot.

Charlie Pop is 15 years old. He has 2 dogs: Bruno and Rex. He lives with his parents Kath and Ron. Today is the 22nd April 2025. Charlie and his friends have been going to the Landfawcett space bowling club all their lives. Charlie’s friends are called Harry Em, Eric Tweet, Paul Key, Robert Storm, Chris Leaf, Jay Laugh, Darren Rain and Tom Breeze. They all have short hair and dress casually especially Ben Steps and George Sing. Jake Train is the cleverest of them all. He has invented a secret waterproof wireless finger camera that takes photographs; it is attached to Charlie and his friend’s fingers. Rex and Bruno have a camera attached to the fur on their heads. Images are shared with each other from the app recording onto their phones and laptops. It is their space bowling tournament today.

Nick spreads cream cheese on my bagel for me because it’s hard to do with one hand. You need to hold the bagel and everything. “You are the nicest boyfriend ever,” I tell him and kiss his cheek. “Gag,” Devyn says. “You’re just jealous,” Nick teases him and points his plastic knife at Devyn. “Which is ridiculous because you are the star of the school now that the wheelchair is totally gone. Everyone is talking about you.” “Star of the school?” Devyn asks. He takes a swig of Gatorade. “All the girls.” Nick gestures to the girls giggling behind them. “They like miracles. It’s sexy. Remember how much play Jay Dahlberg got when he came back from being abducted?” He does not add by pixies because he does not have to. “Really?” Devyn does this cheesy and really fake eyebrow wiggle thing so he looks like some sleezy porn dog.

Domesticated animals like cats and dogs can look at their human companions’ facial expressions and discern their moods and whether the humans like them or not. The same is true for smart tigers in the wild. Why are those humans here? By coincidence or by design? They figure out human intentions based on behavior, expressions, and the energy radiated by people and take precautions or even attack accordingly. A jay once built a nest in the juniper tree at a temple I used to go to. Out of curiosity one day, a monk at the temple peeked inside and happened to meet the gaze of the jay brooding an egg. The monk felt sorry, as if he’d invaded someone’s privacy by looking into their bedroom. From that day on, the monk purposefully ignored the jay when he passed by the nest. The jay also grew to ignore the presence of the monk coming and going, and it was able to raise its young and leave the nest. In contrast, an azure-winged magpie once built a nest in my friend’s garden. Enchanted by its light blue wings and long tail, my friend looked in on the bird often. Not long after, the magpie gave up the nest and flew away, leaving behind a rotten egg. We

So what kind of woman are you looking for? Let me guess. Professional. Sophisticated. Classy. Intelligent. Basically, Lucia but younger, or do you like a little Mrs. Robinson between the sheets?" She took another bite of her hot dog. Was there any better food? "My relationship with Lucia is strictly professional, but yes, I'd be interested in someone similar." "So, you want a mini-me," she teased. "I mean a mini-you. Not me. Obviously. Lucia is pretty much the opposite of me, which is another reason I knew that job wouldn't work out." "You have ketchup on your cheek." He took a napkin and gently dabbed it at the corner of her mouth. Desire flooded her veins followed by a wave of desolation. She could easily fall for a man like Jay. Smart, handsome, ambitious, successful, and yet she sensed a longing in him, a secret Jay waiting to be free. "Is it gone?" Her voice came out in a whisper. He leaned in and studied her with a serious intensity that took her breath away. He was so close she could see the gentle dip of his chin, the dark stubble of his five-o'clock shadow even though it couldn't be much past four o'clock. His lips were firm and soft, his mouth the perfect size for kissing. She drew in his scent: pine and mountains and the rich, earthy scent of the soil she'd turned in the garden when her family was whole and she never had to wonder whose house she was in when she woke up in the morning.

Rosie and Johnny's relationship was being ripped to shreds, with the press and public pawing over the pieces like wild dogs. The emotional chasm between Dominic and Pet had been torn even wider. Apparently, Sylvie had been wasting time, money, and ingredients for months, constantly defending this woman to Jay. And someone intimately connected to the Starlight Circus had just called her décor "kitsch." "Penny," she said very calmly, with a smile just as vague, just as airy, and just as malicious, "get the fuck out of my home." Penny tossed her head---and froze as Mabel walked toward her, hips swinging, also smiling. That smile had more eerie impact than every lighting effect in the Dark Forest combined. The intern took a step back, but halted in momentary confusion when Mabel offered her the lollipop. She took the candy skull automatically, and then shrieked as Mabel---tiny, deceptively delicate Mabel---made a blur of a movement with her foot and Penny tumbled across her shoulders. Whistling, Mabel walked toward the back door and out into the alley, wearing Penny around her neck like a scarf. Through the window, Sylvie watched as her assistant calmly threw the intern into the dumpster. As a stream of profanity drifted from the piles of rubbish--most of which, incidentally, was all the ingredients Penny had purposely wasted--Mabel returned to the kitchen. "I'll be off, then," she said, collecting her bag and coat from their hook. "Have a good night," Sylvie returned serenely. As Mabel passed her, without turning her head or altering her expression, their hands fleetingly clasped. The door swung closed, leaving Sylvie alone with Dominic in a lovely, clean kitchen, while her former intern made a third cross attempt to clamber from the trash.

Of all the species on earth, we seem to be the only ones lacking an "enough" gene. In the wild, dogs, lions, cows, monkeys, apes, even mosquitoes and houseflies, eat until they are satisfied. They don't keep eating to obesity. Animals from squirrels to blue jays store food for winter-and some do store a little more than their needs. This might be seen as suboptimized evolution, as if they weren't evolved enough to remember where they'd hidden all their stores. However, the leftovers benefit other animals and move seeds to new growing sites. It's all part of a balanced ecosystem with zero waste.

Guys are dogs; they'll say or do anything to get -- and keep getting -- what they want.

Zoopharmacognosy is the long-winded scientific label for studying animal self-medication. You may have seen your pet cat or dog chewing on grass when it's unwell. Chemicals in animal-chosen medicinal plants have been shown to have antibacterial, antiviral, antifungal, and antihelminthic (antiparasitic worm) properties. Wild chimps eat Vernonia amygdalina to rid themselves of intestinal parasites and aspilla leaves for rheumatism, viruses, and fungal infections. Other animals chew on charcoal and clay to neutralize food toxins and rub themselves wtih citrus, clematis, and piper for skin ailments. Pregnant elephants have been seen to walk miles to find a certain tree of the Boraginaceae family that brings on labor. There are undoubtedly many more remarkable opportunities to be understood and adapted.

I have realized that businesses—whether they make dog food or software—don’t sell products; they sell solutions.

The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way it treats its animals.” —MAHATMA GANDHI

I pretended not to be surprised when she showed up at my sliding door last night. Between the dog and me? I thought she was either a super-dedicated UPS guy or a polite serial killer.

Industry Guarantee Real estate I'll sell your home. Or give you $1,000 cash. Restaurant You'll love our food. Or the next meal is free. Sports therapist We'll stop your pain. Or we'll visit your home and provide a free follow-up session. Dog-walking service We'll be there on time, every time. Or you get a $50 bag of dog food free. Florist Free box of chocolates if our flowers ever disappoint you. Computer repair We'll fix it right. Or repair it free and give you $100 cash. Retail store Double your money back if you find it cheaper elsewhere.

A quien no le sobra pan, no crie can. Who does not have extra bread should not rear a dog.

just find your way, like a river settling into its bed, and the sigh of the wind over a lake, light but restful... content with the joy in the arc of an arm throwing a ball for a dog to fetch

.... just find your way, like a river settling into its bed, and the sigh of the wind over a lake, light but restful... content with the joy in the arc of an arm throwing a ball for a dog to fetch, the ease of the grassy slope stretching away, birds in the trees singing sweet high notes, flowers growing close in the ditch.

Of course I apologized, but I couldn’t shake the sense that I was truly an asshole.

Up top, we saw a party on the verge of a breakout. The three respectful men were, in fact, security guards. On the far edge of the plot, four scraggly dudes were fiddling around with a PA. A guitar and a drum set lay in the grass behind them. A stand-up bass had been propped up against a gravestone. Surrounding a folding table stocked with handles of Costco booze were six or seven men with fuck-you-Dad piercings—septa, cheeks, foreheads—and tribal facial tattoos. I counted seven, maybe fifteen dogs running around, yapping at one another, and at least twenty or so old hippies, each one dressed in his or her referential, Harold and Maude best, smiling and drinking out of red plastic cups.

Letting go doesn’t mean wiping away negative thoughts, feelings, and ideas completely. The truth is that these thoughts will always arise—it is what we do with them that makes the difference. The neighbor’s barking dog is an annoyance. It will always interrupt you. The question is how you guide that response. The key to real freedom is self-awareness.

There is a pain you can’t think your way out of. You can’t talk it away. If there were someone to talk to. You can walk. One foot the other foot. Breathe in breathe out. Drink from the stream. Piss. Eat the venison strips. Leave his venison in the trail for the coyotes the jays. And. You can’t metabolize the loss. It is in the cells of your face, your chest, behind the eyes, in the twists of your gut. Muscle sinew bone. It is all of you.

He understood the hills, and all about them. He read furtive rustlings in the brush as understandingly as residents of Stauffer read their newspapers. He knew the winter’s den from which the she-bear, walking lean from her winter’s hibernation, took her cubs to meet the world. He could interpret the cries of the hawk, the screams of the jay. The pitch and tone of the wind, the sound of the rain, the formation of the clouds, the actions of birds, all told him secrets hidden from most men.

Larry's dog's named Earl P. Jessup Bowers, if you can get ready for that. And I should mention straightaway that I do not like dogs one bit, which is why I was glad when Larry said somebody had to go. Cats are bad enough. Horses are a total drag. By the age of nine I was fed up with all that noble horse this and noble horse that. They got good PR, horses. But I really can't use em. Was a fire once when I was little and some dumb horse almost burnt my daddy up messin around, twisting, snorting, broncing, rearing up, doing everything but comin on out the barn like even the chickens had sense enough to do. I told my daddy to let that horse's ass burn. Horses be as dumb as cows. Cows just don't have good press agents is all. I used to like cows when I was real little and needed to hug me something bigger than a goldfish. But don't let it rain, the dumbbells'll fall right in a ditch and you break a plow and shout yourself hoarse trying to get them fools to come up out the ditch. Chipmunks I don't mind when I'm at the breakfast counter with my tea and they're on their side of the glass doing Disney things in the yard. Blue jays are law-and-order birds, thoroughly despicable. And there's one prize fool in my Aunt Merriam's yard I will one day surely kill. He tries to "whip whip whippoorwill" like the Indians do in the Fort This or That movies when they're signaling to each other closing in on George Montgomery but don't never get around to wiping that sucker out. But dogs are one of my favorite hatreds. All the time woofing, bolting down their food, slopping water on the newly waxed linoleum, messin with you when you trying to read, chewin on the slippers.

Once nights brought warmth and peace and rest, A lullaby within my breast. A snoring dog beside my feet, A snuggling purring kitten by my face, But, who can trust the human race?

My day just splits again, and I am at the table sitting with the girls, Jenny is hearing me say all this… I am saying at lunch to all of them not leaving out one gross detail- and Jenny said- ‘Damn I have loaded in my undies right now just leasing to this crap.’ Liv and Maddie are kissing like to ribbed- hot- b*tch dogs in heat over it, so yeah, it's hot. I said- ‘I am coming – OH-hh-Aaa- UM-mmm-COME-meeting!!!’ So loud that I know that the rooms in the apartments could hear me, one even said back to my god- yet Miss Wilddickersion is eighty-eight I know who you are… a girl over there, rolled my eyes feeling so award.’ I am so going to hell for this- I said out loud. Do you ever look back over the crap you say, and say what the freak was I thinking? I just had the thought of this crap I am saying. Jenny said- nope not really- my dad hears me coming all the time so- like last night he said- ‘Stop it! You’re going to go throw your bedroom floor girl, and it’s four in the morning! ‘Yet I hear their freaking headboard hitting my wall- but- but that’s okay?’ I said about to have the old b*tch over in the next apart room there getting off too- ‘We all do’ -said Maddie and Olivia. Have you ever had the cops come, over that crap? Jenny said- ‘Well- freak know- Maybe…? I’ve done an officer here at the school, said Jenny proudly, so the whole cafeteria could hear her. Hey- Jenny- no one cares to hear about you being a slutty ho,’ Said- Marcel, yelling it at a table or two away. Maddie- ‘So was it that good?’ ‘It’s good under the hood.’ Said Maddie, I said the same thing too, in a different way, I said- ‘If you know what you’re doing down there.’ Jenny- ‘I- am- the- one that showed you-you b*tch, and your sis too.’ It’s all good! I speak! Not sure if I am going to keep my nasty pizza down at this point really, I don’t want to have thoughts played around in my mind freaking and fingering my brain. I put my feet up all girly and per-die on the table, and he sits accused from me to check me out so why not give him what he wants, and I don’t give a crap if I am in a skirt, I spread them out sloughing like a dude, and Marcel turns bright red, I want him to see that, I was not wearing annoying underneath I know that someone took a picture of my p*ssy and all of his freaked-up face- yep jaw-dropping moments, good thing I shaved it! The teaching that was looking over us freaking fainted at the sight of my va-jay-jay, is that a good thing? Oliva was saying please don’t fart- please don’t fart- she had the set on the other side of me, yet she was all pressed up to Maddie, so I knew he could see all of this- YOU-NO! I said- ‘Dude shut up! You’re freaking me over, and I put my one hand down between my legs, and start to play with myself, caressing it all around, sometimes up and down or in a little circular pattern, making lots of sounds. I even put my long fingers down inside and feel all the wetness and wroth, and I hear voices coming out of me, so he could see the come on my fingers unstop of my dark purple nail polish, and I come right in front of everyone, but it was only for him to see.’ Jenny- ‘do I see a d*ick; you need one to freak that p*ssy? I said- ‘Nah- dude that’s just my heart throbbing clit, and I get written up by another old b*tch teach, that must have a hairy one, or something like that- she has always been up against my ass hole.’ ‘Sometimes you are as blunt as the butt end of a fork, freaking strapping you in the one boob!’ said- Oliva. I see Marcel in the lunch line making a cute almost kiss-ie face at me, and I rankle up my nose and turn my head off to the right side and shake it in a short fast yet deliberate quiver. I walk up to where more than friends and at this point, I hug him and the cafeteria gaps, he kisses me in front of everyone, and I look up before walking and saying with flirty eyes- (You’re such a weirdo!)

a toy poodle puppy, “like all good parents, we went out and read a book about how to raise a dog,” Jay tells me. The book claimed that dog names should ideally have two syllables and hard consonants. The Neitzes brainstormed a few options, and Maureen, in joking reference to Jay’s research on vision, suggested Retina. (I point out that Retina has three syllables. “Yes, but our version has two,” Jay says. “Ret-na.”) Black, fluffy, and very cute, Retina became a part of history. She was one of the dogs who first confirmed what colors dogs actually see. In the 1980s, when the Neitzes were getting their PhDs, many people believed that dogs were color-blind. In The Far Side, cartoonist Gary Larson drew a dog praying at its bedside for “Mom, Dad, Rex, Ginger, Tucker, me, and all the rest of the family to see color.” Scientists bought into this myth, too: One textbook claimed that “on the whole, mammals appear not to have color vision except for the primates

Hate to admit it, but yer silversaint’s right, Flower.” ‘“Damn right I’m right,” I muttered. ‘“Don’t let it go to yer head, man. Every dog has his day.

Go on,” I nod towards Alistair. “Release your dog from its chain. I have a rabies shot.

I head someone say once that passionate people live violent lives. At the time I didn't really get it but if what they meant was the way love waits in ambush traps your well trained sense of control and tortures you into a confession you'd just as soon not make I now understand.

The villains had seen better days. Cruella, with her wild black-and-white hair, wore a ratty, nearly bald black-and-white dog-fur coat, which sported a bejeweled stuffed toy Dalmatian head next to her neck. She stroked it lovingly as if it were alive. Jafar, with his trademark mustache and goatee, was rocking a potbelly, a comb-over, and puffy Sansabelt pants. Evil Queen, a former beauty, pulled at her cosmetically altered face and stared into a mirror. Mal, Evie, Jay, and Carlos feared their parents nonetheless.

My generation must have despair. - Leonard Bernstein Ch 40/Dog Water Free, A Memoir

What in the world could this family have done to deserve a fate such as this?

I guess this means we're uck-fayed, don't it Mikee?

I dream therefore I am." - Marge to her young son Mikee

The costs of military service are substantial. Many costs are readily apparent; others are less apparent but no less important. Among the most pervasive and potentially disabling consequences of these costs is the threat to the psychological health of our nation's fighting forces, and their families, and their survivors. -- Department of Defense Task Force, 2007

See, orders just came down and the Department of Defense hired contractors to kill all nonmilitary dogs found on American bases in Iraq. Seems word got out about the stray dogs eating dead bodies, and while it’s perfectly okay for us to make the bodies dead in the first place, it’s not quite cool to have dogs walking around eating them. There’s some fine line there I guess we’re not supposed to notice. Maybe it has to do with cooties. Anyway, it also turns out that I’m not the only loon who wants to get a dog out of Iraq.

Peace is white sun reflections on summer pear trees, and ocean mist droplets defying gravity by air currents. Peace is caffeinated goodbye-kissing and velvet smiles laced with credence. Trumpet horns sound off the coming of Blue Jays, Swallows and Chickadee’s. And there is no sadness echoing within or without. There is a taste of God in every grass blade and car horn raging in the city. The stop lights are all green, and there are children playing in the fountains. A dog laps my hand, and finally—I remembered what it’s all about.

magpies, jays, sparrowhawks, kestrels, all

True Cause. History is full of war, of death, of sacrifice…of unimaginable brutality. All in the name of the Cause. The mighty Cause. It is not the idea of fighting for a cause that saddens me so. It is the ease with which people devote themselves to it. Men have flocked into the streets, marched, argued, fought, killed…for causes they didn’t even understand. They do it because they follow along, to be part of the group…or because they don’t want to be left out. Because they are told to, or because they crave to be part of something. They follow the Cause for many reasons, with great passion and staggering ignorance. Disturbingly rare among them, are people who fight because they truly understand the reasons for their struggle. Most are simply followers, nipping at the heels of their leaders, like dogs begging for scraps. Throughout history, men have fought for uncounted reasons. For land, for money, for hegemony over their neighbors. They have fought for religion, to avenge insults, to impose belief systems…or to resist such being forced upon them. Wars have been waged to preserve or eliminate slavery, to escape the yoke of political masters…or to impose such rule upon others. Men have fought against those they branded inferiors…and struggled against those who called themselves their betters. The drum has beaten the call to war throughout history, rallying men and women to fight for the Cause…to accept the inevitable pain and suffering of war. To sacrifice sons and daughters to the slaughter. To see cities burn and millions die in confusion, agony, and despair. All for the Cause. Since the dawn of recorded history, the flags have waved and the crowds have cheered. The soldiers have marched…they have marched to fight for the Cause. What did most of them get back from those who called them to war? Famine, disease, shortages, despair. Burned cities and broken dreams. A flag-draped coffin in place of a live son or daughter. Words, endless, professionally-written platitudes, offered by the masters in justification of the slaughter. How often was the Cause truly just, worth the pain and death and horror of war? How many of those billions, who took to the streets for 5,000 years and cheered and sang and rallied for the Cause…how many of them really understood? What percentage took the time to consider the facts, the situation…to question what they were told and ultimately decide for themselves if the Cause was true and righteous? How many mindlessly believed the words of their masters, giving their all to a cause they didn’t even comprehend? A Cause that wasn’t worthy of their sacrifice? What if the Cause is false, corrupt…a fraud created simply to urge men to fight? What if it serves nothing more than the base purposes of the leaders, buying them power with the blood of the people? What does the reasonable man, the just man, do if he discovers the Cause is false? Is there any retribution, any action, any violence unjustified in punishing those responsible? Could any horror that the oppressed and manipulated victims visit upon their former masters be unjustified. Does righteous vengeance become the Cause.

You know how it is. You go up to a parrot, and he’s probably in a cage and you’re not, so you feel pretty superior, maybe you even think you can feel sorry for the parrot, and you ask the parrot how he is, and he says something gnomic like, “So’s your old man,” or “How fine and purple are the swallows of late summer.” Then the parrot looks at you in a really interested, expectant way, to see if you’re going to keep your end up. At first you think you’ve been insulted, but a parrot is too cool to throw insults around, unlike a blue jay, and once you notice that, you start trying to figure out what the parrot means by it, and there you are. You haven’t a prayer of reintroducing whatever topic you had in mind.

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

There was no creeping up on it—the stone outcroppings and broken monuments studding the wastes weren’t enough to conceal approach, and Mia’s cloak of shadows was only big enough for one. Besides, she reasoned, if these were servants of the Lady of Blessed Murder, they may not take kindly to being snuck up on as they stopped to piss. Sadly, the caravan folk seemed happy enough to go as they went, so to speak. The pair were gaining ground, but after two full turns in the saddle, with Bastard nipping her legs and occasionally trying to buck her into the dust, Mia could take no more. Pulling the stallion up near a circle of weathered statues, she didn’t so much lose her temper as drop-kick it across the sand. “Stop, stop,” she spat. “Fuck this. Right in the earhole.” Tric raised an eyebrow. “What?” “There’s more bruises in my britches than there is bottom. It needs a breather.” “Are we playing alliteration and you didn’t tell me, or …” “Fuck off. I need a rest.” Tric frowned at the horizon. “We might lose them.” “They’re led by a dozen camels, Tric. A noseless dog could follow this trail of shit in the middle of truedark. If they suddenly start trekking faster than a forty-a-turn smoker with an armload of drunken prostitutes, I think we can find them again.” “What do drunken prostit—” “I don’t need a foot massage. Don’t want a back rub. I just want to sit on something that isn’t moving for an hour.” Mia slipped off the saddle with a wince, waved her stiletto at Bastard. “And if you bite me again, I swear to the Maw I’ll make you a gelding.

What am I supposed to do? Walk up to them and piss all over her like some territorial dog?