Lab Dog Quotes

I want money and a house with a pool and a partner who loves me and my own lab filled with only the most brilliant and strong women. I want a dog and a Nobel Prize and to find a cure to addiction and depression and everything else that ails us. I want everything and I want to want less.

You can kiss somebody else’s spouse and get away with it. You can kiss a member of the same sex with near impunity. You can give an incestuous kiss on the sly. You can tongue-kiss a dog or exchange raptures with lab rats. But you can’t kiss death without death kissing you back. Death is a passionate kisser.

I thought you were beautiful! I couldn't believe how beautiful you were." Beautiful and smart and a little mean, like he was made in a lab to lure Eddie to his doom. But instead of doom, it's this: coffee and breakfast, a dog snoring on the carpet, the near certainty they'll do this again.

Just so you know Labrodor retrivers do not howl.Begals Howl.Wolves howl. Labs do not howl, at lestnot well. Marley attempted twice to howl, both times in answer to a passing police siren, tossing back his head, forming his mouth into an O shape, and letting loose the most pathetic sound Ihave ever heard, more like gargling than answering the call of the wild. Butnow,no question about it he was howling.

Word of how the flatworm turned … how the lab rat had risen up … how Pavlov’s dog rang Pavlov’s bell and took notes on it … oh, word of all this circulated quickly, too, and everyone, from Number 1 to Number 8, was quite delighted. There was no indication, however, then or later, that Dr. Gladys Loring was amused in the slightest.

Instead, I would take a long, lonely journey toward adulthood with the dogged faith of the pioneer who has realized that there is no promised land but still holds out hope that the destination will be someplace better than here. On

I was a kid once. When you meet my dad, ask him about the time my brother and I decided we wanted a yellow lab instead of a black one and spray-painted the dog.

Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’ I sat up a fraction. ‘What?’ ‘Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’ ‘I don’t know, the lab report’s not back yet,’ I replied drily. ‘I’m serious, is that dog shit?’ ‘How should I know?’ Katz leaned far enough forward to give it a good look and a cautious sniff. ‘It is dog shit,’ he announced with an odd tone of satisfaction. ‘Well, keep quiet about it or everybody’ll want some.’ ‘Go and clean it off, will ya? It’s making me nauseous.’ And here the bickering started, in intense little whispers. ‘You go and clean it off.’ ‘It’s your shoes.’ ‘Well, I kind of like it. Besides, it kills the smell of this guy next to me.’ ‘Well, it’s making me nauseous.’ ‘Well, I don’t give a shit.’ ‘Well, I think you’re a fuck-head.’ ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. You’ve been a fuck-head since Austria.’ ‘Well, you’ve been a fuck-head since birth.’ ‘Me?’ A wounded look. ‘That’s rich. You were a fuck-head in the womb, Bryson. You’ve got three kinds of chromosomes: X, Y and fuck-head.

Characterizing and understanding dogs’ olfactory and cognitive skills isn’t best done in a lab with limited and usually untrained dog subjects. If working dogs are overrated in the popular imagination, they have been mostly underrated in science,

I dislike this whole business of experimentation on animals, unless there's some very good and altogether exceptional reason to this very case. The thing that gets me is that it's not possible for the animals to understand why they are being called upon to suffer. They don't suffer for their own good or benefit at all, and I often wonder how far it's for anyone's. They're given no choice, and there is no central authority responsible for deciding whether what's done is morally justifiable. These experiment animals are just sentient objects; they're useful because they are able to react; sometimes precisely because they're able to feel fear and pain. And they're used as if they were electric light bulbs or boots. What it comes to is that whereas there used to be human and animal slaves, now there are just animal slaves. They have no legal rights or choices in the matter.

I told a story about how my dad had once worked in a lab at a VA hospital on the same floor with a guy who managed to get dogs addicted to cigarettes. There was a tracheostomy tube so the dogs had to inhale the smoke. At first the dogs hated smoking, but eventually they got addicted, and when the cigarettes were taken away, they howled, all day and all night. I didn’t realize until I got to the end that it was a really depressing story. There was a pause.

But I try to make sure they understand that writing, and even getting good at it, and having books and stories and articles published, will not open the doors that most of them hope for. It will not make them well. It will not give them the feeling that the world has finally validated their parking tickets, that they have in fact finally arrived. My writer friends, and they are legion, do not go around beaming with quiet feelings of contentment. Most of them go around with haunted, abused, surprised looks on their faces, like lab dogs on whom very personal deodorant sprays have been tested.

Two guys are walking their dogs, one of which is a black lab and the other a Chihuahua. Passing a bar, the lab walker says, "Let's get a beer." The other guy retorts, "We can't take our dogs in there," and the first guy says, "Watch." In he goes and orders a beer. "Sorry, you can't bring your dog in here," says the bartender. "But, he's my seeing eye dog." "Oh, okay. Here's your beer." Convinced, the Chihuahua owner follows, orders a beer, and gets the same response—No beer. "But, he's my seeing eye dog," he pleads. "Yeah, right," replies the bartender. "A Chihuahua as a seeing eye dog? Gimme a break." "They gave me a Chihuahua?

It was the very fact of the note, stuck on my windshield on the Red Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota, hundreds of miles from where Fatback had lived and, apparently, died. That, and the small deerskin pouch of tobacco that was tied to it. Fatback was a black Lab — a good dog — who had belonged to Dan, an elderly Lakota man who lived far out on the Dakota plains. Years before, as a result of a book of elders’ memories I had done with students at Red Lake, Dan had contacted me to come out to his home to speak with him. His request was vague, and I had been both skeptical and apprehensive. But, reluctantly, I had gone, and it had changed my life. We had worked together, traveled together, and created a book together in which the old man told his stories and memories and thoughts about Indian people and our American land.

Pretty much everyone we went to college with has a Hazel Bradford story. Of course, my old roommate Mike has many—mostly of the wild sexual variety—but others have ones more similar to mine: Hazel Bradford doing a mud run half marathon and coming to her night lab before showering because she didn’t want to be late. Hazel Bradford getting more than a thousand signatures of support to enter a local hot dog eating contest/fund-raiser before remembering, onstage and while televised, that she was trying to be a vegetarian. Hazel Bradford holding a yard sale of her ex-boyfriend’s clothes while he was still asleep at the party where she found him naked with someone else (incidentally, another guy from his terrible garage band). And—my personal favorite—Hazel Bradford giving an oral presentation on the anatomy and function of the penis in Human Anatomy.

At its core, The story is a simple one. For ages humans gave birth to humans and animals to animals. Then one day a woman in La Crosse, Wisconsin, gave birth to a puppy, a Lab-greyhound mix, to be exact. It weighed a pound, they said, though I don’t suppose that meant much to most of us at the time. It was well known that human newborns weigh around eight pounds, but average folks knew nothing of the birth weight of dogs. Later, after the story had broken and the puppy grew into a twenty-five-pound twelve-week-old, the woman consented to an interview.

told me more about what happened the other night?” she asked, deciding to air her worst fears. “Am I under suspicion or something?” “Everyone is.” “Especially ex-wives who are publicly humiliated on the day of the murder, right?” Something in Montoya’s expression changed. Hardened. “I’ll be back,” he promised, “and I’ll bring another detective with me, then we’ll interview you and you can ask all the questions you like.” “And you’ll answer them?” He offered a hint of a smile. “That I can’t promise. Just that I won’t lie to you.” “I wouldn’t expect you to, Detective.” He gave a quick nod. “In the meantime if you suddenly remember, or think of anything, give me a call.” “I will,” she promised, irritated, watching as he hurried down the two steps of the porch to his car. He was younger than she was by a couple of years, she guessed, though she couldn’t be certain, and there was something about him that exuded a natural brooding sexuality, as if he knew he was attractive to women, almost expected it to be so. Great. Just what she needed, a sexy-as-hell cop who probably had her pinned to the top of his murder suspect list. She whistled for the dog and Hershey bounded inside, dragging some mud and leaves with her. “Sit!” Abby commanded and the Lab dropped her rear end onto the floor just inside the door. Abby opened the door to the closet and found a towel hanging on a peg she kept for just such occasions, then, while Hershey whined in protest, she cleaned all four of her damp paws. “You’re gonna be a problem, aren’t you?” she teased, then dropped the towel over the dog’s head. Hershey shook herself, tossed off the towel, then bit at it, snagging one end in her mouth and pulling backward in a quick game of tug of war. Abby laughed as she played with the dog, the first real joy she’d felt since hearing the news about her ex-husband. The phone rang and she left the dog growling and shaking the tattered piece of terry cloth. “Hello?” she said, still chuckling at Hershey’s antics as she lifted the phone to her ear. “Abby Chastain?” “Yes.” “Beth Ann Wright with the New Orleans Sentinel.” Abby’s heart plummeted. The press. Just what she needed. “You were Luke Gierman’s wife, right?” “What’s this about?” Abby asked warily as Hershey padded into the kitchen and looked expectantly at the back door leading to her studio. “In a second,” she mouthed to the Lab. Hershey slowly wagged her tail. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Beth Ann said, sounding sincerely rueful. “I should have explained. The paper’s running a series of articles on Luke, as he was a local celebrity, and I’d like to interview you for the piece. I was thinking we could meet tomorrow morning?” “Luke and I were divorced.” “Yes, I know, but I would like to give some insight to the man behind the mike, you know. He had a certain public persona, but I’m sure my readers would like to know more about him, his history, his hopes, his dreams, you know, the human-interest angle.” “It’s kind of late for that,” Abby said, not bothering to keep the ice out of her voice. “But you knew him intimately. I thought you could come up with some anecdotes, let people see the real Luke Gierman.” “I don’t think so.” “I realize you and he had some unresolved issues.” “Pardon me?” “I caught his program the other day.” Abby tensed, her fingers holding the phone in a death grip. “So this is probably harder for you than most, but I still would like to ask you some questions.” “Maybe another time,” she hedged and Beth Ann didn’t miss a beat. “Anytime you’d like. You’re a native Louisianan, aren’t you?” Abby’s neck muscles tightened. “Born and raised, but you met Luke in Seattle when he was working for a radio station . . . what’s the call sign, I know I’ve got it somewhere.” “KCTY.” It was a matter of public record. “Oh, that’s right. Country in the City. But you grew up here and went to local schools, right? Your

Hard to imagine, but Dakotah herself was 99.98 percent wolf, including, you might suppose, the part of her that loved pursuing and catching things over and over at breakneck speed and delivering them back to her pack, in a faint echo of the chase. I’ve wondered if some dogs may feel a higher level of drive for such games, since it’s their only outlet for genetically programmed catch-and-kill hunting behavior. A wolf in the same situation seems more relaxed, more purely at play—certainly the case with the black wolf just then, and with other wild wolves I’ve seen. After all, wolves hunt to live, on a daily basis; fooling around with a toy is more of a break, quite separate from the serious business of living—having fun for the sheer sake of it. To high-drive Labs and border collies, fetch is often more than just a game; it’s their job, a dead serious business.

Trying to trick the creature, hoping that it would react without hesitation to the first sign of movement in the door way, Travis tucked the revolver under his belt, quietly picked up one of the dining-room chairs, eased to within six feet of the kitchen, and pitched the chair through the open door. He snatched the revolver out of his waistband and, as the chair sailed into the kitchen, assumed a shooter's stance. The chair crashed into the Formica-topped table, clattered to the floor, and banged against the dishwasher. The lantern-eyed enemy did not go for it. Nothing moved. When the chair finished tumbling, the kitchen was again marked by a hushed expectancy . Einstein was making a curious sound, a quiet shuddery huffing, and after a moment Travis realized the noise was a result of the dog's uncontrollable shivering. No question about it: the intruder in the kitchen was the very thing that had pursued them through the woods more than three months ago. During the intervening weeks, it had made its way north, probably traveling mostly in the wildlands to the east of the developed part of the state, relentlessly tracking the dog by some means that Travis could not understand and for reasons he could not even guess. In response to the chair he had thrown, a large white-enameled canister crashed to the floor just beyond the kitchen doorway, and Travis jumped back in surprise, squeezing off a wild shot before he realized he was only being taunted. The lid flew off the container when it hit the floor, and flour spilled across the tile. Silence again. By responding to Travis's taunt with one of its own, the intruder had displayed unnerving intelligence. Abruptly Travis realized that, coming from the same research lab as Einstein and being a product of related experiments, the creature might be as smart as the retriever. Which would explain Einstein's fear of it. If Travis had not already accommodated himself to the idea of a dog with humanlike intelligence, he might have been unable to credit this beast with more than mere animal cleverness; however, events of the past few months had primed him to accept-and quickly adapt to-almost anything.

Christ. Study the roster. Study everybody’s photos,” she said. “Where’s the packing list for Earl?” Et cetera, et cetera . . . That spring, the gallery was putting up Ping Xi’s first solo show—“Bowwowwow”—and Natasha was up in arms about every little detail. She probably would have fired me sooner had she not been so busy. I tried to feign interest and mask my horror whenever Natasha talked about Ping Xi’s “dog pieces.” He had taxidermied a variety of pure breeds: a poodle, a Pomeranian, a Scottish terrier. Black Lab, Dachshund. Even a little Siberian husky pup. He’d been working on them for a long time. He and Natasha had grown close since his cum paintings had sold so well. During the installation, I overheard one of the interns whispering to the electrician. “There’s a rumor going around that the artist gets the dogs as puppies, raises them, then kills them when they’re the size he wants. He locks them in an industrial freezer because that’s the most humane way to euthanize them without compromising the look of the animal. When they thaw, he can get them into whatever position he wants.

A school bus is many things. A school bus is a substitute for a limousine. More class. A school bus is a classroom with a substitute teacher. A school bus is the students' version of a teachers' lounge. A school bus is the principal's desk. A school bus is the nurse's cot. A school bus is an office with all the phones ringing. A school bus is a command center. A school bus is a pillow fort that rolls. A school bus is a tank reshaped- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a science lab- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a safe zone. A school bus is a war zone. A school bus is a concert hall. A school bus is a food court. A school bus is a court of law, all judges, all jury. A school bus is a magic show full of disappearing acts. Saw someone in half. Pick a card, any card. Pass it on to the person next to you. He like you. She like you. K-i-s-s-i . . . s-s-i-p-p-i is only funny on a school bus. A school bus is a stage. A school bus is a stage play. A school bus is a spelling bee. A speaking bee. A get your hand out of my face bee. A your breath smell like sour turnips bee. A you don't even know what a turnip bee is. A maybe not, but I know what a turn up is and your breath smell all the way turnt up bee. A school bus is a bumblebee, buzzing around with a bunch of stingers on the inside of it. Windows for wings that flutter up and down like the windows inside Chinese restaurants and post offices in neighborhoods where school bus is a book of stamps. Passing mail through windows. Notes in the form of candy wrappers telling the street something sweet came by. Notes in the form of sneaky middle fingers. Notes in the form of fingers pointing at the world zooming by. A school bus is a paintbrush painting the world a blurry brushstroke. A school bus is also wet paint. Good for adding an extra coat, but it will dirty you if you lean against it, if you get too comfortable. A school bus is a reclining chair. In the kitchen. Nothing cool about it but makes perfect sense. A school bus is a dirty fridge. A school bus is cheese. A school bus is a ketchup packet with a tiny hole in it. Left on the seat. A plastic fork-knife-spoon. A paper tube around a straw. That straw will puncture the lid on things, make the world drink something with some fizz and fight. Something delightful and uncomfortable. Something that will stain. And cause gas. A school bus is a fast food joint with extra value and no food. Order taken. Take a number. Send a text to the person sitting next to you. There is so much trouble to get into. Have you ever thought about opening the back door? My mother not home till five thirty. I can't. I got dance practice at four. A school bus is a talent show. I got dance practice right now. On this bus. A school bus is a microphone. A beat machine. A recording booth. A school bus is a horn section. A rhythm section. An orchestra pit. A balcony to shot paper ball three-pointers from. A school bus is a basketball court. A football stadium. A soccer field. Sometimes a boxing ring. A school bus is a movie set. Actors, directors, producers, script. Scenes. Settings. Motivations. Action! Cut. Your fake tears look real. These are real tears. But I thought we were making a comedy. A school bus is a misunderstanding. A school bus is a masterpiece that everyone pretends to understand. A school bus is the mountain range behind Mona Lisa. The Sphinx's nose. An unknown wonder of the world. An unknown wonder to Canton Post, who heard bus riders talk about their journeys to and from school. But to Canton, a school bus is also a cannonball. A thing that almost destroyed him. Almost made him motherless.

Reliability," I said. That's what this lab needs. More importantly" -- she wasn't the only one who could play on feelings-- "that's what the dogs need. Someone who steps up every day. Ask yourself if that's you. If it isn't, maybe it's time to start--

And I found myself in a corner of Blackwell’s Book Store. Its dark woods and book-lined walls are not only instantly recognizable but timeless, and for a moment I thought I’d made it back to 2057, and getting to the lab was going to be a simple matter of sprinting up the Broad to Balliol, but as soon as I poked my head round the bookcase, I knew it wasn’t going to be that simple. Outside Blackwell’s bow windows it was snowing. And there was a Daimler parked in front of the Sheldonian.

He's really so adorable. The dog, I mean. Did you know he's a rescue beagle?" I'd remembered Frank and Sam had used the term the day I'd first encountered Bandit, but I'd just assumed it meant that he'd come from the pound. Rachel had set me straight. "They use them to experiment on. You know, in laboratories. Sam says they use beagles because they're so gentle and sweet-tempered they won't even bite you when you're hurting them. And after a few years when they 'retire' the dogs, some labs give them to rescue groups who try to find them homes. Sam says that Bandit didn't even know what grass was when he got him. It's his second rescue beagle. He had one before, a girl dog, but she ended up with cancer and he had to put her down. So he got Bandit." "Beagles," Sam said now, as he stood squarely on the scaffolding, "don't like to be alone. So she'll be doing me a favor." "What about the doggie day-care place?" "Nah. There's a Labradoodle there that's always picking on him. He'll be better hanging out with Rachel." I was not completely fooled. I knew he'd talked to Rachel for a while, because she'd told me that he had. "He's really nice," she'd said. "He listens." So I knew he knew that Rachel wasn't finding this an easy time, and I suspected Sam just figured she and Bandit were a lot alike in needing some companionship from somebody who understood and didn't push their boundaries. Whatever his true motivations, it was an inspired move.

Also, if you’re going to say that animal studies predict events in people, then we should stop eating chocolate, which can cause heart arrhythmias and occasionally death in dogs.

led by Dr. Susan Lynch from the University of California in San Francisco. This study collected dust samples from homes with and without dogs, and showed that upon exposing mice to the different dust samples, the mice that were given dust from homes with dogs were less likely to develop asthma. What’s more, they looked at the type of bacteria in the dust samples and found a specific species, Lactobacillus johnsonii, associated with the improvement of asthma in mice. When they grew this bacterium in the lab and fed it to mice in the absence of any dust, they found that it lowered the risk of asthma, demonstrating that this and perhaps other species of beneficial bacteria, along with the dogs that bring them into households, are responsible for decreasing asthma risks.

What qualities are essentials for this type of dog? It takes focus, endurance, an ability to scent discriminate, and, some would say excessive drive. For me, Black Labs of working/field trail lines have proven to be very capable in this role. However, I know that many breeds of dogs would work just as well. It takes a dog that is tireless, with a boundless desire to please. The dog must be tough enough for the weather and terrain and just dumb enough to want to do this more than anything else in the world. – Deb Tirmenstein

the Labrador Retriever is one of the most well-known canine varieties on the planet at least as per the official canine libraries they are otherwise called a Labrador or essentially a lab they are a delightful shrewd and Respectable canine which is reasonable for all family types on the off chance that you’re considering taking on a Labrador Retriever it’s critical to get informed this is the manner by which you can start to offer the best consideration particularly since

The biggest photo in the center of the page was of a gorgeous blond dog named Hudson who was posed with a smile and an irresistible head tilt. He looked like a Disney character brought to life, complete with a starry-eyed expression and a filtered halo of sunlight around his head. At first glance she thought he was pure yellow Lab, but the dark muzzle and oversized ears suggested that there was something houndy mixed in his DNA.

What is he? I definitely see Newfie, and maybe some chocolate Lab, but what else?” Morgan asked. “I did a DNA test on him and it said he was Newfoundland, Lab, Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, and Chihuahua.” Morgan shook her head. They’ve always gotta throw in that weird one, right?

Morgan noticed that the dog was off leash and way ahead of the guy, and she instinctively tensed up as it ran toward where they were standing. Bernadette kept her eye on the dog as well, but Palmer was oblivious, sniffing something invisible in the sand. As the dog got closer, Morgan saw that he was carrying a piece of driftwood like it was a trophy, head up at an awkward angle to compensate for the weight of it. It was a beautiful black Lab, its coat wet with salt water. She relaxed when she realized that the dog hadn’t even noticed they were there, so focused on the joy of kicking up sand that nothing else mattered. It was the essence of dog happiness distilled to a moment, and Morgan’s heart pinched when she realized it was a pleasure that Hudson couldn’t experience. Yet. Someday he’s going to be able to race down the beach with wet fur and a smile on his face, carrying a piece of driftwood with a buddy like they’re running a relay race.

160-pound Lab

If you have a border collie, and do your job, you will learn patience. if you have Labs, you will learn to stretch the boundaries of hygiene. I'm told that the original Labs hailed not from Labrador but from Newfoundland, where they worked with tough and tired fisherman who let them hang around but didn't provide organic or vegan dog food. As a result, Labs became scavengers, with little fussiness about what they ate.

Bernie, a giant Bernese mountain dog and Lab mix (she guessed), had a long coat, mostly black except for a streak of white starting on her forehead, then trailing down her throat and onto her chest, with another spot under her tail, making her look like a cream-filled chocolate-dipped cannoli. Three of her four paws looked dunked in white paint, like she'd made a mess during a home improvement project. She was named for one of Astra's favorite characters, Bernadette Fox from Where'd You Go, Bernadette. Like the titular character, Bernie had a small circle of people she adored; she found the rest to be annoying gnats (small children excluded--- they often had snacks to share), not to be bothered with, except the squirrel who lived in the front yard, who was her nemesis. She spent hours making sure the little rodent didn't sneak into the house.

She looked at me, dead serious, and put a hand on Stuntman Mike’s head. “He’s a hunting dog.” “I’m pretty sure that’s an insult to hunting dogs everywhere.” I dug for my cell and pulled up a picture of my buddy’s Lab with a duck in his mouth. “This is a hunting dog.

She had been silenced by operant conditioning, by receiving the same response again and again, like an electroshocked lab rat, or a beaten dog. A disbelieved woman.

Then between Sixth Street and Seventh Street, my mood was vastly improved when I passed a good-looking dog, a dark brown Lab. We locked eyes for a moment—two lovers from a former life reunited—and I felt quite happy.

The pug owner continued, “Not to be a Grinch, I only ask because I’d forgotten how much work dogs are. They have to be walked several times a day, and it’s holy murder crawling out of bed early on a dark winter morning to take Poppy out. But she yips and yaps and scratches at the bed until I do. Then there’s the matter of chewing. I can’t tell you how many leather shoes Poppy’s ruined. And she’s not even a big dog, certainly not one of those eternally hungry dogs like yellow Labs who will eat anything, even the contents of wastebaskets, no matter how much you feed them.

Will we have pets?” I bite back the question regarding kids. While this might be a fun fantasy, imagining being responsible for something like that is terrifying. “Sure.” Noah stays near the fire on one bent knee and occasionally pokes it to keep the dwindling flames alive. “I had a dog once.” “What type?” “A mix of some sort. Part Lab, part something smaller than Lab. Its paws were too big for its body, so it skidded across the kitchen floor.” “Is that what you want?” “If we’re going to live alone on a mountain, we need a guard dog. A German shepherd. Something like that.” “Guard dog?” Not what I had in mind for the fantasy. “We need something cute and cuddly.” I squish my fingers in the air as if I have the little puff ball in my hands. “It can sleep in our bed.” “No fucking way, Echo. I’m not sharing my bed with a dog.

Preventing Separation Anxiety We wish our dogs could be with us all day, every day, but it’s not possible, and puppies do need to learn to spend time alone. A dog who can never be left home alone without destroying the house may be suffering from separation anxiety. Teach your Lab to feel safe and comfortable at home alone while she’s still a puppy, even if you’re home all day. Your life or job situation may change someday, and you’re heading off future trauma by teaching this lesson now, when she is young. Your puppy’s not yet mature enough to have the run of an entire house or yard, so confine her in her crate or pen when you’re gone. What you might think is separation anxiety might really be simple puppy mischief. When you’re not there to supervise, she’s free to indulge her curiosity and entertain herself in doggie ways. She knows she can’t dump the trash and eat the kitty litter in front of you, but when you’re gone, she makes her own rules. Teach your puppy not to rely on your constant attention every minute you’re at home. Set up her crate, pen, or wherever she can stay when you’re gone, and practice leaving her in it for short rests during the day. She’ll learn to feel safe there, chewing on her toy and listening to household noises. She’ll also realize that being in her pen doesn’t always mean she’s going to be left for long periods. Deafening quiet could unnerve your puppy, so when you leave, turn on the radio or television so the house still has signs of activities she’d hear when you’re home. Background noise also blocks out scary sounds from outdoors, so she won’t react to unknown terrors. HAPPY PUPPY Exercise your puppy before you leave her alone at home. Take her for a walk, practice obedience, or play a game. Then give her a chance to settle down and relax so she won’t still be excited when you put her in her pen. She’ll quickly learn that the rustle of keys followed by you picking up your briefcase or purse, getting your jacket out of the closet, or picking up your books all mean one awful thing: you’re going, and she’s staying. While you’re teaching her to spend time alone, occasionally go through your leaving routine without actually leaving. Pick everything up, fiddle with it so she can see you’re doing so, put it all back down, and go back to what you were doing. Don’t make a fuss over your puppy when you come and go. Put her in her pen and do something else for a few minutes before you leave. Then just leave. Big good-byes and lots of farewell petting just rev her up and upset her. When you come home, ignore her while you put down your things and get settled. Then greet her calmly and take her outside for a break.

I don’t know much about movies. Haven’t seen too many. And I don’t know anything about movie stars.” “Retired,” she said. “I’m sanding, varnishing, hauling trash and training my bird dog. I’m going to pick up another one pretty soon now—I picked the bitch and sire a while ago and she whelped, so as soon as they’ll let him go… And I don’t cook much, don’t bake at all, but as it happens I have sugar for my coffee. In case you want to borrow a cup for that cake you’re baking me.” “My thirty-year-old daughter has a man in her life—a good man—and they’re at the house every weekend,” he found himself explaining. “I have reasons to stay out of the house a lot. How much sugar do you keep on hand?” She grinned at him. “Plenty.” “I might need some as early as tomorrow evening,” he said. “That good man my daughter has is here for the weekend.” “Is that so?” Then Muriel turned her mount, facing the other way and said, “Luce!” She gave two short whistles. The Lab bolted back where she’d come from. Muriel looked over her shoulder and said, “Bring a decent bottle of red wine then,” she said. She put her horse into an easy canter and followed her dog. Walt sat there for a long time, till she was out of sight. “Damn,” he said aloud. *

Stuckie fascinated me and I loved to imagine him as Creon breaking into Antigone’s tomb, his face contorted into a grimace of need and regret. When I recalled, however, that Reba always refused to go anywhere near the macabre thing, I realized that from her perspective, Stuckie was a sort of canine poor Yorick whose smell probably inspired unpleasant ruminations about a dog’s place in the universe.

Callie’s excitement was infectious. Everyone in the lab wanted to see the experiment we were about to perform, mostly because nobody thought it would work. Could we really scan a dog’s brain to figure out what it was thinking? Would we find proof that dogs love us?

Adult Labrador Retrievers need thirty to sixty minutes of interactive exercise every morning and evening. You can’t just put a Lab in the yard while you’re cooking dinner because Labs tend not to exercise themselves—at least not in constructive ways. They may bark, chew, and dig, but most owners interpret that as unruly behavior, not exercise. Labs only get appropriate exercise when it is directed by a person, either by walking, hiking, swimming, or retrieving. Don’t think bad weather is an excuse to take the day off; the typical Lab thinks a hurricane only makes the outing more invigorating.

Bill was wrestling with his undercooked chicken. "Wow," I remarked while examining my own plate. "I don't think I can eat this." "I know. It's gross," he conceded. "But it's free, so I scarf down seconds each night." "As a dog returneth to his vomit," I said, while making the sign of the cross in the air in front of me. "Amen," he agreed with his mouth full, and toasted me with his 7Up can.

Maybe ," Kate replied, "but sometimes I worry about what we're doing. I know in my heart it's right to save these endangered species; I just wish we didn't need to do it from behind walls." " I know," Alice sighed. "There's so much we humans have to learn. For starters, we have to stop taking habitat that doesn't belong to us. The animals could then reproduce and live healthy lives where they belong.

Where’s the pizza?” Something warm and furry came and leaned against my right leg. I reached down to pet Rocky, a black lab who was going gray around his eyes and muzzle. “Rocky wants to know where the pizza is, too.” “He’s the reason the food is in the kitchen. Last time we kept it out here on the picnic table, he helped himself to half of a large bacon pepperoni pizza and then he threw up in my mom’s closet. She was cleaning dog barf out of her shoes for days.” I squatted down and rubbed Rocky’s ears. “I bet you were framed, huh, buddy?” He leaned into the ear rub and sighed. “I bet it was the cat, wasn’t it?” He sighed again like he was agreeing with me. “Nice try, but there isn’t that much barf in a cat,” Trevor said.

Of course her dumb Lab’s going to do whatever it takes to retrieve the ball. What he craves more than freedom is companionship.

But what've we got instead? Idiot collies, neurotic shepherds, murderous Rottweilers, deaf Dalmatians, and Labs so calm you could shoot a gun at them and they wouldn't suspect danger.

handy little reminder of the three phases, you can remember LAB RETrieVeR. (Luring And Baiting. Reward Every Time. Variable Reward.)

In the few weeks we've been in residence, Schatzi has kicked dirt in the eye of a Chihuahua, resulting in a squealing of eardrum-perforating shrillness. She nipped the fingers of a very nice young woman walking her terrier mix when she tried to pet her. She growled at a Yorkie so menacingly the dog had immediate violently explosive diarrhea. All over my leg. It was like some invisible hand just squeezed her in the middle and hot liquid poop shot out of her with such velocity that despite being only like eight inches tall, she hit me from ankle to over the knee. I'm still grateful she wasn't a bigger dog. Schatzi was never mean to other dogs, or owners for that matter, when we were in the West Loop. She had her neighborhood pals, Otto the black Lab, who always tried to give her gifts of mangy tennis balls, Lucy, the sweet old arthritic collie who would nuzzle Schatzi like a doting grandmother, and her best buddy, Klaus, a giant schnauzer, the perfect replica of Schatzi herself, just supersized. They would romp around and then put their square bearded heads together and have what appeared to be very serious conversations about things. Jimmy, Klaus's dad, would always lean over and ask, "Do you think they're planning to invade Poland?" which never failed to make me laugh.

You’ll move pretty quickly from one phase to the next. And as a handy little reminder of the three phases, you can remember LAB RETrieVeR. (Luring And Baiting. Reward Every Time. Variable Reward.)

trial and error. Other experimenters recorded the visual fields of target subjects exposed to the color red. Trainees who learned, through feedback, to approximate that same neural activity reported seeing red in their mind’s eye. Since those days, the field had shifted from visual learning to emotional conditioning. The big grant money was going to desensitizing people with PTSD. DecNef and Connectivity Feedback were being touted as treatments to all kinds of psychiatric disorders. Marty Currier worked on clinical applications. But he was also pursuing a more exotic side-hustle. “Why not?” I told my wife. And so we volunteered in her friend’s experiment. IN THE RECEPTION AREA OF CURRIER’S LAB, Aly and I chuckled over the entrance questionnaire. We would be among the second wave of target subjects, but first we had to pass the screening. The questions disguised furtive motives. HOW OFTEN DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE PAST? WOULD YOU RATHER BE ON A CROWDED BEACH OR IN AN EMPTY MUSEUM? My wife shook her head at these crude inquiries and touched a hand to her smile. I read the expression as clearly as if we were wired up together: The investigators were welcome to anything they discovered inside her, so long as it didn’t lead to jail time. I’d given up on understanding my own hidden temperament a long time ago. Lots of monsters inhabited my sunless depths, but most of them were nonlethal. I did badly want to see my wife’s answers, but a lab tech prevented us from comparing questionnaires. DO YOU USE TOBACCO? Not for years. I didn’t mention that all my pencils were covered with bite marks. HOW MUCH ALCOHOL DO YOU DRINK A WEEK? Nothing for me, but my wife confessed to her nightly Happy Hour, while plying the dog with poetry. DO YOU SUFFER FROM ANY ALLERGIES? Not unless you counted cocktail parties. HAVE YOU EVER EXPERIENCED DEPRESSION? I didn’t know how to answer that one. DO YOU PLAY A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT? Science. I said I might be able to find middle C on a piano, if they needed it. Two postdocs took us into the fMRI room. These people had way more cash to throw around than any astrobiology team anywhere. Aly was having the same thoughts

We sin when we violate the relationship between us and God, between us and others. To lie, cheat, or steal is sin because it violates the relationship between you and your neighbor. We sin against God when we deny that we are our brother’s keeper, when we ignore the interrelatedness between us.

Pilobolus.

I once knew someone in New York who insisted that his black Lab was a vegetarian. “Just like you,” I said. “Gosh, what a coincidence!” When the dog charged after a hamburger someone had dropped on the sidewalk outside a McDonald’s on Eighth Avenue, he was, I guess, just going after the pickle.

It was a large hare, big as a sheltie dog and with similar fur, long ears, and a long, lean body.

Dr. Spaceman enters from I.C.U. His lab coat is covered in blood. The women all gasp. DR. SPACEMAN What, this? No, no, I was at a costume party earlier this evening… and the hostess’s dog attacked me so I had to stab it.

the screen door, Morgan began barking from down in Bud’s yard. The black lab was so loud Bunnie had to shout through her sniffles. “Don’t let Reggie bother you, Julia. He’s trying to protect me. He wants me to be happy in my new life. To fit in.” She stared toward Bud’s yard in exasperation. “That damn dog.” “Bunnie, do yourself two favors. Tell the cops about your connection to Stevie before they find it. And then take a plate of

How would he manage if he became blind? At least if he was blind he could get a guide dog - there was an upside to everything, a silver lining of helpful Labs and noble German Shepherds eager to be his eyes. What if he became deaf? They had dogs for the deaf, too, but Martin wasn´t sure what they did. Tugged at your sleeve a lot probably while looking meaningfully at things.

The master of the Morrow labs hierarchy is Morrow Incorporated. That is what everyone must obey: not a director or a shareholder or officer, but the entity itself. That is how they set it up, so that no human names would be associated with what was done here. And I know that corporations are good and useful things: every Bioform ever made was built by one. But they are good servants. They can only be bad masters.

I have a lab filled with millions of dollars’ worth of equipment, and I can tell you none of it works as well as a good dog’s nose. I’ve witnessed canines hitting on hundred-year-old remains. What they even smell, none of us can tell you. At that point, there’s no organic matter left; the bone is little more than a dried sponge. But the dogs always know.

black lab and the other a Chihuahua. Passing a bar, the lab walker says, "Let's get a beer." The other guy retorts, "We can't take our dogs in there," and the first guy says, "Watch." In he goes and orders a beer. "Sorry, you can't bring your dog in here," says the bartender.

the combo gave him gas, but the taste was unparalleled, and Arnold lived alone, except for the chickens and his yellow Lab, so the gas wasn’t a critical problem, though the dog sometimes got watery eyes.

liked the Labs, but sometimes people would show up for the shoot with Springer Spaniels to work alongside them. Come lunchtime, when the Labs would often be flagging, it was the Springers who watched everyone drift back towards the lodge with an expression that said, ‘Why are we stopping?’ Their energy was boundless, and I admired them for it.

Well, they are dogs, but there’s no “only” about it. Besides being fully deserving of dignity in their own right, dogs can help us figure out how to get along with other beings, human and non-human. Living with dogs presents us with the paint-by-numbers version of relationships, helpfully simplified because it’s stripped of the human complications of verbal language, spiteful (or altruistic) agendas, endless analysis and moral equivocating. Given dogs’ sociability, matchless sensitivity to human body-language, behavioral flexibility and passion for physical play, they are ideal “lab partners” for humans desiring to develop new skills to become better parents, spouses, siblings and friends. This is why discussions about various dog-training methods can get so emotional. They reflect our deepest beliefs about how all relationships should function.

Growling, snarling, fear, misery and the taste of blood. The smell of sweat and resignation, of floral scent and old rope. And the shape and slink of an animal as it slunk on its belly to oblivion. “Not the Black Dog again,” I said. There is a legend that in the reign of Henry II a poor scholar was thrown into Newgate for the crime of sorcery. The prison had been undergoing one of its periodic efficiency drives, with savings being largely taken from the catering budget. The prisoners, driven mad by hunger, fell upon the young milk-fed scholar with glee and, presumably, some sort of condiment. The scholar was said to have uttered a terrible curse and thereby given rise to a hideous black dog which, one by one, hunted down and devoured all those who had tasted of the young man’s flesh. Even those who had been released and scattered to the four corners of the land. “Medical students?” said Nguyễn. Everybody knew about the Black Dog. Especially, for some historical reason or other, the trainee doctors at Barts Hospital, which is located not far to the north. And they, being the future health professionals that they are, love to carry out macabre rituals at the wall. Usually involving bits stolen from the pathology lab and a lot of magical symbology cribbed off the internet.

PARTNER, PENTA, AND FERAL FATE, TWO BLACK LABS AND A BELGIAN Malinois, stood at the foot of Crownsville’s grounds, taking in a massive scent pool. The hospital’s remaining 485 acres still stretch out of sight. For dogs trained to find cadavers and human tissue, this was a gold mine. “It’s kind of like going into a disaster. It’s a multiple-fatalities disaster so it smells everywhere,” their trainer told me. At just nine months old, Feral Fate was the youngest and least experienced on the team that day. Together, the three took pause to acclimate to the powerful odor.

town of Dreamsville, there lived a cute chocolate lab puppy