Litter Of Puppy Quotes

Cozy was a fun night by a fireplace with marshmallows. Cozy was a grandmother knitting Christmas sweaters. Cozy was new puppies in a litter. Cozy was not what he had in mind to do in that tent with Tes.

Pray note that my chest does not appear to be a toast rack in a wet paper bag. Mort glanced sideways at the top of Ysabell's dress, which contained enough puppy fat for two litters of Rotweilers, and forbore to comment.

Well, you’re part of the human fabric of experience. You don’t have to have cancer to write about cancer. You don’t have to have somebody close to you die to understand what death is. Definitely, the more you live, the more experiences fall into your spectrum, but I have songs like “Chemo Limo,” or “Ode to Divorce”—I wrote that when I was 18. And I remember having people come up to me and be like, “You totally described what it feels like to get divorced!” As a writer, you must have been told: Write about what you know. But Kafka didn’t. Gogol didn’t. Did Shakespeare write only what he knew? Did Camus? Our own selves are limitless.And our capacity for empathy is giant. That’s why we’re able to feel sympathy for, you know, a dog who has a puppy in its litter that died; we can feel for that, and write about that. I’ve never seen that, I just see things sometimes in my mind’s eye.I guess it sounds sort of hippie, and probably is, but I do feel that we’re all part of the experience. So in that way, I guess you don’t have to compartmentalize. You could just kind of let it all be.

Damn Robby Riverton, anyhow. He was like a litter of puppies—loads of rambunctious trouble and just as appealing. And he’d no doubt leave just as much of a stinking mess behind too.

Mort glanced sideways at the top of Ysabell’s dress, which contained enough puppy fat for two litters of Rottweilers, and forbore to comment.

And I will tell you what, Fanny—which is more than I did for Maria—the next time pug has a litter you shall have a puppy.

When they hear I teach first grade, they invariably picture my kids like a litter of puppies in a pet store window, cute and nearly brainless. Let me tell you. My kids are brilliant. Never underestimate children. I don't teach to their minds. Or their hearts. I teach to their spirits, and not one child has failed me. Ever. I mind-boggle them by reminding them they are made from the remnants of star-dusted constellations. When I tell them this their eyes sparkle to prove it.

Rayna does not get sick on planes. Also, Rayna does not stop talking on planes. By the time we land at Okaloosa Regional Airport, I’m wondering if I’ve spoken as many words in my entire life as she did on the plane. With no layovers, it was the longest forty-five minutes of my whole freaking existence. I can tell Rachel’s nerves are also fringed. She orders an SUV limo-Rachel never does anything small-to pick us up and insists that Rayna try the complimentary champagne. I’m fairly certain it’s the first alcoholic beverage Rayna’s ever had, and by the time we reach the hotel on the beach, I’m all the way certain. As Rayna snores in the seat across from me, Rachel checks us into the hotel and has our bags taken to our room. “Do you want to head over to the Gulfarium now?” she asks. “Or, uh, rest up a bit and wait for Rayna to wake up?” This is an important decision. Personally, I’m not tired at all and would love to see a liquored-up Rayna negotiate the stairs at the Gulfarium. But I’d feel a certain guilt if she hit her hard head on a wooden rail or something and then we’d have to pay the Gulfarium for the damages her thick skull would surely cause. Plus, I’d have to suffer a reproving look from Dr. Milligan, which might actually hurt my feelings because he reminds me a bit of my dad. So I decide to do the right thing. “Let’s rest for a while and let her snap out of it. I’ll call Dr. Milligan and let him know we’ve checked in.” Two hours later, Sleeping Beast wakes up and we head to see Dr. Milligan. Rayna is particularly grouchy when hungover-can you even get hungover from drinking champagne?-so she’s not terribly inclined to be nice to the security guard who lets us in. She mutters something under her breath-thank God she doesn’t have a real voice-and pushes past him like the spoiled Royalty she is. I’m just about aggravated beyond redemption-until we see Dr. Milligan in a new exhibit of stingrays. He coos and murmurs as if they’re a litter of puppies in the tank begging to play with him. When he notices our arrival he smiles, and it feels like a coconut slushy on a sweltering day and it almost makes up for the crap I’ve been put through these past few days.

Jacob’s dogs were soon the envy of other men, who offered to buy them. Instead, he traded a day’s work for the stud of the male cur with cunning wolfish eyes. When the smallest of our bitches bore the wolf-dog’s litter, Jacob trained her puppies and traded four of the five for what seemed a mountain of treasure, which he quickly converted to gifts that proved how well he had come to understand Laban’s daughters.

He should rest his mind and body as much as possible to ensure a complete recovery." She wrinkled her nose playfully at Bazzle, who was curled up on the other side of the bed with a ball of red fluff cuddled against his chest. "That means we mustn't let the puppy disturb Mr. Severin's sleep." The puppy had been a gift from Winterborne and Helen, delivered just that morning. They had received word of a new litter from a friend who bred toy poodle dogs, and at their request had sent the pick of the litter when he was ready to be weaned. Bazzle was enchanted with the little creature, whose presence had already helped him to stop fretting over the fright he'd received. "There's a dust wad on the bed," had been Tom's comment upon first seeing the puppy. "It has legs." Now the toy poodle stretched and yawned, and toddled up along Tom's side, staring at him with bright amber eyes.

Her eyes watered triumphantly, and she let her gaze drop back towards the house: the window of her bedroom, the Michaelmas daisy she and Ma had planted over the poor, dead body of Constable the cat, the chink in the bricks where, embarrassingly, she used to leave notes for the fairies. There were faint memories of a time before, of being a very small child, collecting winkles from a pool by the seashore, of dining each night in the front room of her grandmother's seaside boardinghouse, but they were like a dream. The farmhouse was the only home she'd ever known. And although she didn't want a matching armchair of her own, she liked seeing her parents in theirs each night, knowing as she feel asleep that they were murmuring together on the other side of the thin wall, that she only had to reach out an arm to bother one of her sisters. She would miss them when she went. Laurel blinked. She would miss them. The certainty was swift and heavy. It sat in her stomach like a stone. They borrowed her clothes, broke her lipsticks, scratched her records, but she would miss them. The noise and heat of them, the movement and squabbles and crushing joy. They were like a litter of puppies, tumbling together in their shared bedroom. They overwhelmed outsiders and this pleased them. They were the Nicolson girls, Laurel, Rose, Iris, and Daphne; a garden of daughters, as Daddy rhapsodized when he'd had a pint too many. Unholy terrors, as Grandma proclaimed after their holiday visits.

So, of course Rose decided this would be a good time to discuss such matters. “I would also like to know if you know ways to prevent pregnancy.” He choked on a grape. She lurched toward him, but he coughed and spat the villainous fruit on the grass. He wiped at his watery eyes with the back of his hand as he turned his face to her once more. “That will teach me not to chew sufficiently.” Rose smiled shakily, her heart skipping. “You scared me.” What if he had choked to death right in front of her? She couldn’t even begin to contemplate life without him. “You stunned me. That’s not exactly something you bring up out of the blue.” His eyes twinkled. “Was it the mention of your puppy? Are you frightened of having a litter?” When he looked at her like that-like they were friends and so much more-it made her insides feel like leaves blowing in the wind. Her gaze slid to her lap. “I would like us to have some time together before we have children.” Some of the tenderness drained from his expression. “I should have taken precautions last night. I’m sorry. I didn’t think of children, only…” “Only what?” If it made his eyes warm like that, she wanted to know what he’d been thinking. His gaze locked with hers, so sharp and hot. “I thought only of how it felt to be naked inside you.” A hard throb pulsed low and deep inside her, bringing sexual awareness speeding to the surface. It had been different without the “French Letter.” It had been better than the times at Saint’s Row, even though she wouldn’t have thought that possible. But that difference wasn’t entirely physical, she knew that. “And how did that feel?” Lord, was that warble really her voice? Grey regarded her from beneath heavy lids. “Like heaven.” Dear God, the man knew exactly what to say to her. She was already leaning toward him, pulled by some invisible string. “Really?” He reached out, cupping her jaw with his warm hand. His thumb brushed her lower lip, pulling it just a little. “Really. And if we weren’t out in the open I’d show you.” “I’d let you,” she replied breathlessly. The air between them seemed to crackle. If lightning struck the ground between them it wouldn’t surprise her. Grey rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Come with me.

It was ten years since Gwenda had picked Skip out of a litter of mongrel puppies, on the floor of Caris’s bedroom in the wool merchant’s big house, the day Caris’s mother died.

Puppy Litter New puppy litter. Four white, two black, one mottled. God is nature's whimsy.

Mr. Eben warned Harve that any puppies that had the sheep killer’s blood in them were bound to be no ‘count by the law of heritage. Bonnie’s litter was on the way when the father was killed and Harve believed he could cure the pups of any bad habits. The father had had a lot of courage, a strong heart and a good nose. Maybe the pups would be all right.

dustpan that he emptied into a larger trash can. If I were him, picking up after people who carelessly dropped stuff on the ground, I’d be nothing but angry. They call it littering when you carelessly drop things. They call the careless folks who drop things by a cute name: litterbug. There’s nothing cute about dropping things carelessly. Dropping garbage and having puppies shouldn’t be called the same thing. “Litter.” I had a mind to write to Miss Webster about that. Puppies don’t deserve to be called a litter like they had been dropped carelessly like garbage. And people who litter shouldn’t be given a cute name for what they do. And at least the mother of a litter sticks around and nurses her pups no matter how sharp their teeth are. Merriam Webster was falling down on the job. How could she have gotten this wrong? Vonetta asked me again. Not because she was anxious to meet Cecile. Vonetta asked again so she could have her routine rehearsed in her head—her curtsy, smile, and greeting—leaving Fern and me to stand around like dumb dodos. She was practicing her role as the cute, bouncy pup in the litter and asked yet again, “Delphine, what do we call her?” A large white woman came and stood before us, clapping her hands like we were on display at the Bronx Zoo. “Oh, my. What adorable dolls you are. My, my.” She warbled like an opera singer. Her face was moon full and jelly soft, the cheeks and jaw framed by white whiskers. We said nothing. “And so well behaved.” Vonetta perked up to out-pretty and out-behave us. I did as Big Ma had told me in our many talks on how to act around white people. I said, “Thank you,” but I didn’t add the “ma’am,” for the whole “Thank you, ma’am.” I’d never heard anyone else say it in Brooklyn. Only in old movies on TV. And when we drove down to Alabama. People say “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am” in Alabama all the time. That old word was perfectly fine for Big Ma. It just wasn’t perfectly fine for me.

Bella, Samuel explained, had recently produced a litter of burnished bronze puppies. The other Zappia children were busy selling most of them to tourists gullible enough to believe they were a rare African breed of lion-hunting dog, but Samuel had kept one. "The best one. I saved for you. See how he looks at you?" It was true: the puppy in my basket had stopped its squirming to stare up at me with damp, blue-sheened eyes, as if awaiting divine instruction.

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.

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

Lady Asha, as the mother of a prince, found herself much in demand with the Court, if not the High King. Given to whimsy and frivolity, she wished to return to the merry life of a courtier. She couldn't attend balls with an infant in tow, so she found a cat whose kitten were still born to act as his wet nurse. That arrangement lasted until Prince Cardan was able to crawl. By then, the cat was heavy with a new litter and he'd begun to pull at her tail. She fled to the stables, abandoning him, too. And so he grew up in the palace, cherished by no one and checked by no one. Who would dare stop a prince from stealing food from the grand tables and eating beneath them, devouring what he'd taken in savage bites? His sisters and brothers only laughed, playing with him as they would with a puppy. He wore clothes only occasionally, donning garlands of flowers instead and throwing stones when the guard tired to come near him. None but his mother exerted any hold over him, and she seldom tried to curb his excesses. Just the opposite.

Lady Asha, as the mother of a prince, found herself much in demand with the Court, if not the High King. Given to whimsy and frivolity, she wished to return to the merry life of a courtier. She couldn't attend balls with an infant in tow, so she found a cat whose kittens were still born to act as his wet nurse. That arrangement lasted until Prince Cardan was able to crawl. By then, the cat was heavy with a new litter and he'd begun to pull at her tail. She fled to the stables, abandoning him, too. And so he grew up in the palace, cherished by no one and checked by no one. Who would dare stop a prince from stealing food from the grand tables and eating beneath them, devouring what he'd taken in savage bites? His sisters and brothers only laughed, playing with him as they would with a puppy. He wore clothes only occasionally, donning garlands of flowers instead and throwing stones when the guard tired to come near him. None but his mother exerted any hold over him, and she seldom tried to curb his excesses. Just the opposite.

If you balk at the idea that dogs could be bred like pigs, I’m sorry to disabuse you. Dogs and pigs alike are treated as breeding livestock. The animals are made to have as many young as possible. The babies are taken away at a young age so that they can be sold and a new breeding cycle can begin. The animals never have real sex—that is, sex when and with whom they choose; rather, females are tied up so they can be mounted or, more often, they are artificially inseminated. In commercial breeding operations, and also in many small-scale or backyard breeding outfits, dogs are treated, like the sows and their piglets, as units of production and their sole function is to bear young for profit. All they do is bear one litter after another, until (usually at the age of four or five) they are spent. At which point they are no longer of value and are killed. Taken together with the spay/neuter picture, what we have is rather bizarre: an enormous population of eunuchs and virgins, and a small population of dogs who live their entire meagre existence as breeders, as part of a puppy production line.

along with Sirius, an older puppy from an earlier litter,

Look around and see what you can find,” he says, shedding his gear. “It’s probably very near to where we are standing.” A very dense thicket sprouts twenty feet ahead. Vines and brush block our way. We crawl and clip our way to it. Myrtle stalks no wider than a broom handle sprout everywhere. They are so dense that eight or more grow in a square foot. Ryan peers into the outcrop of myrtle stalks, the branches unified like a fortress. Two little milky eyes stare back at him, peering up. Two little erect ears wobble on a shaky head. Within the dense brambles, a mass of several puppies crawls around in a bowl depression. Their ears are erect and their eyes are open. The first pup has wandered away from the other three. “They’re mobile!” he calls to me. “Try to get around in here.” We have to get to them fast, before they scatter and can’t be found again. They are at least a week older than expected. I try to enter the copse from the side. Ryan crashes through the mass of twigs and stretches his arms out, grabbing at the pups before they go helter-skelter. One pup sees Ryan coming and yelps in fear while trying to out-crawl him. The other puppies, alarmed by their sibling’s alarm yelp, begin to squeal. Ryan presses two pups gently against the ground. They shriek. He pins the third with his other hand, but the fourth puppy scrambles away. I finally wiggle into the copse and nab it. I glance at Ryan, wondering what to do now that our hands are full of squirming red wolf puppies. “They’re a lot bigger than the last ones,” I say. “Yeah, they must be four weeks old. She must have dropped this litter early. Can you sit with your legs out to hold them?” Without a subterranean den, we had to coral them somehow. Inside the copse, there is barely room to move. I drop down to a sitting position with my legs splayed out, and the pups wiggle en masse against my thigh.

They’re a lot bigger than the last ones,” I say. “Yeah, they must be four weeks old. She must have dropped this litter early. Can you sit with your legs out to hold them?” Without a subterranean den, we had to coral them somehow. Inside the copse, there is barely room to move. I drop down to a sitting position with my legs splayed out, and the pups wiggle en masse against my thigh. Their noses press against my pant leg. They calm down and begin to nuzzle into each other. Dirt streaks their coats, which range from coal to warm gray. Their heads are covered in dense auburn fur, and all of them have now closed their milky-gray eyes. I stare at them in disbelief at the thought that, not so long ago, settlers threw dynamite into wolf puppy dens. Their muzzles appear foreshortened and out of proportion to the long and wide jaws they will grow into one day. Something compels one pup to move closer and closer to me until the little wolf wedges its nose firmly into my groin. The other pups trail behind it, tunneling between each other and pawing their way over one another until all four are piled together between my legs. I try not to think about the fact that suddenly I am a temporary nursemaid to some of the world’s rarest wolves while their mother likely paces a few dozen yards away. Adjusting the puppies is futile, as they seem hardwired to nuzzle their way into the warmest, tightest spot they can find. The brambles, while thick on the outside, form a natural opening in the middle that is just large enough for a wolf to circle around in. The mother had dug a very shallow earthen dish - only a few inches deep - to keep her babies in. “Doesn’t seem like much of a den,” I remark. “I thought we’d find another big hole in the ground.” “It varies,” Ryan says. “Sometimes we find them in these bowl depressions, usually where the woods are thicker and the ground is flatter, like here. But sometimes they’re in holes. When the ground is sloped, they’ll dig back into the slope. That’s the most typical kind of den. But we’ve found them in storm culverts, too. It’s all over the map.” Ryan sets to work pulling out rubber gloves, blood-sample supplies and ID chips. Chris snaps and cracks his way to us. He crawls through the copse and curses at the dense vegetation. Finally, he reaches the inner sanctum, where there is barely enough room to sit Indian style jammed up against Ryan’s legs and mine. Roomy for a wolf, maybe, but cramped for three human adults. “What a sorry little den,” Chris remarks. He glances at the scratched-out dirt bed and porous brush overhead. Rain drips through, wetting our heads. “Is she nearby?” “Somewhere over there.” Ryan gestures behind us. “She’s not going far, though, you can be sure of that. These guys squealed their guts out.

Dalmatians (substitute your breed’s usual characteristics) hyperactive, aggressive and mean? No. If they

Mona could be syrupy sweet, then knife you the minute your back was turned. There wasn’t a dirty trick she hadn’t used in the ring, and there were damn few she hadn’t been suspected of using outside the ring. There were rumors about false papers, puppies switched between litters, cosmetic surgery, even down to whispers of judges being bribed. She was a big winner and a powerful force in the breed. She couldn’t stand not winning, rarely congratulated anyone else on a win, and rather than seeming happy when she did win, she acted as if it was only what she deserved.

If it’s a freak to be the only puppy in a litter,” answered the Mistress, refusing to part with her enthusiasm over the miracle, “then this one ought to bring us luck. Let’s call him ‘Bruce.’ You remember, the original Bruce won because of the mystic number, seven. This Bruce has got to make up to us for the seven puppies that weren’t born. See how proud she is of him! Isn’t she a sweet little mother?

There is a half-finished mural on the wall that was a quarter-finished when we graduated four years ago. Prints from both famous and obscure artists line every other wall and cover the entire ceiling. The window ledges are lined with sculptures and various three-dimensional arts. On her desk is an asymmetrically shaped vase filled with flowers made of newspaper. I know from asking years ago that the newspaper is from the day Finny was born. On the wall behind her desk is the only framed art—a drawing we did together in third grade of a landscape littered with unicorns, soccer balls, explosions, and puppies.

Glowing technology was also used to track success while engineering the first transgenic dog, Ruppy, short for Ruby Puppy. Ruppy was born in South Korea in 2009, one of a litter of four cloned beagles engineered by scientists at Seoul National University to express a red fluorescent protein gene. The experiment was a proof of concept; the team only intended to show that transgenic dogs could be cloned. Ruppy and her genetically identical littermates looked like perfectly normal beagles under natural light. But under ultraviolet light, they all glowed a charming, bright, ruby red. When Ruppy was mated to a non-transgenic dog, half her puppies inherited the red protein gene, indicating that the transgene had incorporated successfully into her germ line.

new litter of puppies had arrived so they no longer had the space. They thought Benson would be perfect, because he has a good temperament, plus he would have to travel a long way by plane to get to us, and that would be a difficult journey for a puppy. “So what do you think, Luke? Do you want to get this particular dog?” Dad asked.

a gold-laced hat and coat and a wicker wine-hamper containing a litter of month-old puppies and a gold snuff-box filled with a white powder resembling fine sugar.