Muzzle Dog Quotes

Slowly, Anna put up a hand to his muzzle and began to scratch that spot behind the ear where large dogs keep their souls.

Sunsets are loved because they vanish. Flowers are loved because they go. The dogs of the field and the cats of the kitchen are loved because soon they must depart. These are not the sole reasons, but at the heart of morning welcomes and afternoon laughters is the promise of farewell. In the gray muzzle of an old dog we see goodbye. In the tired face of an old friend we read long journeys beyond returns.

That dog is a wolf, is he not?' 'Aye, well, mostly.' A small flash of hazel told him not to quibble. 'And yet he is thy boon companion, a creature of rare courage and affection, and altogether a worthy being?; 'Oh, aye,' he said with more confidence. 'He is." She gave him an even look. 'Thee is a wolf, too, and I know it. But thee is my wolf, and best thee know that.' He'd started to burn when she spoke, an ignition swift and fierce as the lighting of one of his cousin's matches. He put out his hand, palm forward, to her, still cautious lest she too, burst into flame. 'What I said to ye, before . . . that I kent ye loved me-' She stepped forward and pressed her palm to his, her small, cool fingers linking tight. 'What I say to thee now is that I do love thee. And if thee hunts at night, thee will come home.' Under the sycamore, the dog yawned and laid his muzzle on his paws. 'And sleep at they feet,' Ian whispered, and gathered her in with his one good arm, both of them blazing bright as day.

Fleetfoot turned to look up at Celaena, her golden eyes full of question. Celaena reached down to stroke the warm head, the long ears, the slender muzzle. But the question remained. Celaena said, “She’s never coming back.” The dog kept waiting.

[Fireheart] was interrupted by a screech from Cloudtail. "Fireheart! Fireheart, Brightpaw isn't dead!" Fireheart spun around and raced across the clearing to crouch beside Brightpaw. Her white-and-ginger fur, which, she had always kept so neatly groomed, was spiky with drying blood. On one side of her face the fur was torn away, and there was blood where her eye should have been. One ear had been shredded, and there were huge claw marks scored across her muzzle.

I don’t want your apology, least of all for being afraid,” he said. “Without fear, what would we be? Mad dogs with foam on our muzzles and shit drying on our hocks.

The Bible tells us to get along with our neighbor. So our commentator Rashi says—but if his dog barks, muzzle him.

I washed my hands every day, Jojo. But that damn blood ain't never come out. Hold my hands up to my face, I can smell it under my skin. Smelled it when the warden and sergeant cam up on us, the dogs yipping and licking blood from they muzzles. They'd torn his throat out, hamstringed him. Smelled it when the warden told me I'd done good. Smelled it the day they let me out on account I'd led the dog that caught and killed Richie. Smelled it when I finally found his mama after weeks of searching, just so I could tell her Richie was dead and she could look at me with a stone face and shut the door on me. Smelled it when I made it home in the middle of the night, smelled it over the sour smell of the bayou and the salt smell of the sea, smelled it years later when I climbed into bed with Philomene, put my nose in your grandmother's neck, and breathed her in like the scent of her could wash the other away. But it didn't. When Given died, I thought I'd drown in it. Drove me blind, made me so crazy I couldn't speak. Didn't nothing come close to easing it until you came along.

He rolls his eyes when I mention the dog connection. “What is it with you and dogs?” “Dogs are like humans, only better in every respect,” I say.

I don't want your apology, least of all for being afraid," he said. "Without fear, what would we be? Mad dogs with foam on our muzzles and shit drying on our hocks." "What do you want, then?" Eddie cried. "You've taken everything else- everything I have to give! No, not even that, because in the end, I gave it to you! So what else do you want from me?" Roland held the key which was their half of Jake Chamber's salvation locked in his fist and said nothing. His eyes held Eddie's, and the sun shone on the green expanse of plain and the blue-gray reach of the Send River, and somewhere in the distance the crow hailed again across the golden leagues of this fading summer afternoon. After awhile, understanding began to dawn in Eddie Dean's eyes. Roland nodded. "I have forgotten the face. . ." Eddie paused. Dipped his head. Swallowed. Looked up at the Gunslinger once more. The thing which had been dying among them had moved on now- Roland knew it. That thing was gone. Just like that. Here, on this sunny wind-swept ridge at the edge of everything, it had gone forever. "I have forgotten the face of my father, gunslinger. . . and I cry your pardon." Roland opened his hand and returned the small burden of the key to him who ka had decreed must carry it. "Speak not so, gunslinger," he said in the High Speech. "Your father sees you very well. . . loves you very well . . . and so do I." Eddie closed his own hand over the key and turned away with his tears still drying on his face. "Let's go," he said, and they began to move down the long hill toward the plain which streched beyond.

Alpha’s muzzle curled in disbelief, but he went on watching Fiery intently. “Mad? In what way?” “Insane,” Fiery told him. “Like a dog with the water-madness”—at this several Packmembers gasped and growled nervously—“but not that. His jaws foamed and he had fits, but he was in control. Very much in control. He rules his Pack with fear.

Don't blame me, Pongo,' said Lord Ickenham, 'if Lady Constance takes her lorgnette to you. God bless my soul, though, you can't compare the lorgnettes of to-day with the ones I used to know as a boy. I remember walking one day in Grosvenor Square with my aunt Brenda and her pug dog Jabberwocky, and a policeman came up and said the latter ought to be wearing a muzzle. My aunt made no verbal reply. She merely whipped her lorgnette from its holster and looked at the man, who gave one choking gasp and fell back against the railings, without a mark on him but with an awful look of horror in his staring eyes, as if he had seen some dreadful sight. A doctor was sent for, and they managed to bring him round, but he was never the same again. He had to leave the Force, and eventually drifted into the grocery business. And that is how Sir Thomas Lipton got his start.

The bone dog rested his muzzle on her forearm. He had neither ears nor eyebrows, and yet she could practically feel the look he was giving her, tragic and hopeful as dogs often were.

pressed up against the rear wall, half hidden by shirts and dresses dangling from hangers, was a tall, thin girl with wide, terrified eyes. Her hands were wrapped around the muzzle of a small, wildly squirming dog.

She reaches down into her bulging tote bag and pulls out a small plastic box with a hinged lid. It contains a round pill box with a threaded lid from which she tips out a vitamin pill, a fish-oil pill, and the enzyme tablet that lets her stomach digest milk. Inside the hinged plastic box she also carries packets of salt, pepper, horseradish, and hand-wipes, a doll size bottle of Tabasco sauce, chlorine pills for treating drinking water, Pepto-Bismol chews, and God knows what else. If you go to a concert, Bina has opera glasses. If you need to sit on the grass, she whips out a towel. Ant traps, a corkscrew, candles and matches, a dog muzzle, a penknife, a tiny aerosol can of freon, a magnifying glass - Landsman has seen everything come out of that overstuffed cowhide at one time or another.

I am your little ram, burying his muzzle in thick grass of your pasture, folded by you at night, herded by day, a dedicated dog nipping at my hocks. The day will come for you to draw the bright sickle of the moon across my wooly throat. Do it with love, without regret.

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It’s laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.

We’re like a dog wagging its tail, expecting a treat for learning how to put on its own muzzle.

I realized I still had my eyes shut. I had shut them when I put my face to the screen, like I was scared to look outside. Now I had to open them. I looked out the window and saw for the first time how the hospital was out in the country. The moon was low in the sky over the pastureland; the face of it was scarred and scuffed where it had just torn up out of the snarl of scrub oak and madrone trees on the horizon. The stars up close to the moon were pale; they got brighter and braver the farther they got out of the circle of light ruled by the giant moon. It called to mind how I noticed the exact same thing when I was off on a hunt with Papa and the uncles and I lay rolled in blankets Grandma had woven, lying off a piece from where the men hunkered around the fire as they passed a quart jar of cactus liquor in a silent circle. I watched that big Oregon prairie moon above me put all the stars around it to shame. I kept awake watching, to see if the moon ever got dimmer or if the stars got brighter, till the dew commenced to drift onto my cheeks and I had to pull a blanket over my head. Something moved on the grounds down beneath my window — cast a long spider of shadow out across the grass as it ran out of sight behind a hedge. When it ran back to where I could get a better look, I saw it was a dog, a young, gangly mongrel slipped off from home to find out about things went on after dark. He was sniffing digger squirrel holes, not with a notion to go digging after one but just to get an idea what they were up to at this hour. He’d run his muzzle down a hole, butt up in the air and tail going, then dash off to another. The moon glistened around him on the wet grass, and when he ran he left tracks like dabs of dark paint spattered across the blue shine of the lawn. Galloping from one particularly interesting hole to the next, he became so took with what was coming off — the moon up there, the night, the breeze full of smells so wild makes a young dog drunk — that he had to lie down on his back and roll. He twisted and thrashed around like a fish, back bowed and belly up, and when he got to his feet and shook himself a spray came off him in the moon like silver scales. He sniffed all the holes over again one quick one, to get the smells down good, then suddenly froze still with one paw lifted and his head tilted, listening. I listened too, but I couldn’t hear anything except the popping of the window shade. I listened for a long time. Then, from a long way off, I heard a high, laughing gabble, faint and coming closer. Canada honkers going south for the winter. I remembered all the hunting and belly-crawling I’d ever done trying to kill a honker, and that I never got one. I tried to look where the dog was looking to see if I could find the flock, but it was too dark. The honking came closer and closer till it seemed like they must be flying right through the dorm, right over my head. Then they crossed the moon — a black, weaving necklace, drawn into a V by that lead goose. For an instant that lead goose was right in the center of that circle, bigger than the others, a black cross opening and closing, then he pulled his V out of sight into the sky once more. I listened to them fade away till all I could hear was my memory of the sound.

her small white dog Bouton hurrying at her heels to keep up. A far cry from the fluffy lapdogs so popular with the ladies of the Court, he looked vaguely like a cross between a poodle and a dachshund, with a rough, kinky coat whose fringes fluttered along the edges of a wide belly and stumpy, bowed legs. His feet, splay-toed and black-nailed, clicked frantically over the stones of the floor as he trotted after Mother Hildegarde, pointed muzzle almost touching the sweeping black folds of her habit. “Is that a dog?” I had asked one of the orderlies in amazement, when I first beheld Bouton, passing through the Hôpital at the heels of his mistress. He paused in his floor-sweeping to look after the curly, plumed tail, disappearing into the next ward. “Well,” he said doubtfully, “Mother Hildegarde says he’s a dog. I wouldn’t like to be the one to say he isn’t.

With their sinewy legs, lean flanks, and narrow muzzles, coyotes appear to be designed for speed and savage assault, and yet even as they face you down with a predatory gleam in their eyes, they have some of the appeal of dogs. Prairie wolves, some people call them, and although they lack most of the charm of wolves, they do have a puppylike quality because their feet are too big for their bodies and their ears are too big for their heads.

I had now also got to deal with the fate of my horses and my dogs... In the end I decided to give them to my friends. I rode in to Nairobi on my favourite horse, Rouge, going very slowly and looking round to the North, and the South. It was a very strange thing to Rouge, I thought, to be going in by the Nairobi road, and not to be coming back. I installed him, with some trouble, in the horse-van of the Naivasha train, I stood in the van and felt, for the last time, his silky muzzle against my hands and my face. I will not let thee go, Rouge, except thou bless me. We had found together the riding-path down to the river amongst the Native shambas and huts, on the steep slippery descent he had walked as nimbly as a mule, and in the brown running river-water I had seen my own head and his close together. May you now, in a valley of clouds, eat carnations to the right and stock to the left.

He adopts a silver-muzzled sixty-five-pound brindle dog named Luther, walks him through the front door of the house, dumps a can of beef and barley stew into a bowl, and watches Luther engulf it. Then the dog sniffs around his surroundings as though in disbelief at his reversal of fortune.

Proper circus you make,' Berkley said, with a snort of laughter Laurence considered unnecessary, when they landed in the clearing and set the dog down; it promptly went tearing around the parade ground yelling at the dragons. For their part they were only interested and curious until the dog bit a too-inquisitive Dulcia on the tender nip of her muzzle, at which she hissed in anger; the dog yelped and fled back to the dubious shelter of Temeraire's side; he looked down at it in irritation and tried unsuccessfully to nudge it away. 'Pray be careful of the creature; I have no idea how we should get or train another,' Laurence said, and Temeraire at last grumbling allowed it to curl up beside him.

A man frantically spurring an equally frightened horse—and behind him, the distance decreasing, a pack of what at first appeared to be dogs. But these were not dogs—they were half-dog and half-bird, with the lean, shaggy bodies and legs of dogs but possessing birdlike talons in place of paws and savagely curved beaks which snapped where muzzles should have been.

During those weeks animals came up to her on the street and pushed their soft muzzles into her palm, and she always said the same two words, never wondering whether they were a lie or not, the words that dumb things depend on us to say—because when a dog runs to you and nudges against your hand for love and you say automatically, I know, I know, what else are you talking about except the world?

And here may well end the story of Buck. The years were not many when the Yeehats noted a change in the breed of timber wolves; for some were seen with splashes of brown on head and muzzle, and with a rift of white centring down the chest. But more remarkable than this, the Yeehats tell of a Ghost Dog that runs at the head of the pack. They are afraid of this Ghost Dog, for it has cunning greater than they, stealing from their camps in fierce winters, robbing their traps, slaying their dogs, and defying their bravest hunters.

Something moved on the grounds down beneath my window — cast a long spider of shadow out across the grass as it ran out of sight behind a hedge. When it ran back to where I could get a better look, I saw it was a dog, a young, gangly mongrel slipped off from home to find out about things went on after dark. He was sniffing digger squirrel holes, not with a notion to go digging after one but just to get an idea what they were up to at this hour. He’d run his muzzle down a hole, butt up in the air and tail going, then dash off to another. The moon glistened around him on the wet grass, and when he ran he left tracks like dabs of dark paint spattered across the blue shine of the lawn. Galloping from one particularly interesting hole to the next, he became so took with what was coming off — the moon up there, the night, the breeze full of smells so wild makes a young dog drunk — that he had to lie down on his back and roll. He twisted and thrashed around like a fish, back bowed and belly up, and when he got to his feet and shook himself a spray came off him in the moon like silver scales.

Once I read a study in which the author maintained that if all existing breeds of dogs were liberally intermingled, within a few generations they would narrow down to one type: a strong, astute beast of medium size, with short, wiry hair, a pointed muzzle, and willful tail: that is, the typical Chilean stray. I suppose we will come to that, and I hope also that with time we will succeed in fusing all human races; the result will be a rather short individual of indefinite color, adaptable, resilient, and resigned to the ups and downs of existence, like us Chileans.

On November 24, 1855, Hans Christian Andersen wrote to a friend about the funeral and its aftermath. His observations help set the stage for the whole scenario as it played itself out. Søren Kierkegaard was buried last Sunday [November 18] following a service at the Church of Our Lady. The parties concerned had done very little. The church pews were closed, and the crowd in the aisles was unusually large. Ladies in red and blue hats were coming and going. Item: a dog with a muzzle. At the graveside itself there was a scandal: when the whole ceremony was over out there (that is, when [Dean] Tryde had cast earth upon the casket), a son of a sister of the deceased stepped forward and denounced the fact that he had been buried in this fashion. He declared—this was the point, more or less—that Søren Kierkegaard had resigned from our society, and therefore we ought not bury him in accordance with our customs! I was not there, but it was said to be unpleasant.

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.

Despite how tightly wound Hudson had been the first time they met, he was a pretty chill dog. She’d started a list in her journal of all of his positive qualities that at first had been limited to his good looks… the golden fur, the subtle black shading along his muzzle, the big ears that telegraphed more information about his emotional state than his tail. But each day together brought new insights about the mystery at the end of the leash, like the fact that he didn’t pull during walks. He never jumped up on her no matter how excited he got. He always dropped fetched balls at her feet. He didn’t guard his food bowl, toys, or his bed. And best of all, he was always DTT. Down to train. Hudson loved training. It was like he’d been thirsty to prove to someone how clever he was, so no matter what she attempted with him, he happily played along.

He’s definitely young,” she laughed as he began his up-close investigation of her feet and legs. “You’re so fast, Archer!” Morgan knelt when the dog finally came to a complete stop and looked at her with his tongue hanging out of his catfish mouth, grinning and wiggling. He danced his way closer and bumped against her leg, so she took it as an invitation and finally reached out to pet him. “He’s so soft,” Morgan exclaimed as she ran her hand down the dog’s khaki fur. “Yup, my velvet hippo,” Nathan said, leaning against the truck and watching them with a bemused expression. Archer was lean and muscular, with an athlete’s body and a comedian’s face. The black mask around his muzzle highlighted the fact that he looked like a reverse vampire with his two lower canines jutting out in a pronounced underbite. He slid his body to the ground with a plop, then rolled onto his back and swatted at Morgan to pet his belly. “Okay, bossy,” Morgan said, reaching out to rub as instructed. “Bro, let’s go.” Nathan laughed at his dog thrashing around in front of Morgan. “He’s never going to let you stop now. Arch, c’mon.

Poirot?’ Amelia held up the dog, a jet black ball of fur with a pointed muzzle. ‘My little Belgian Schipperke, Poirot.’ On cue, the dog yapped at him. He laughed. ‘Does Agatha know that you’ve named him after her detective?’ ‘Of course she does, and she thinks it a positive hoot.

There is yet one more point which I must mention here in which the gospel is the best help to man. We must remember to-day, that there are districts of the earth where the ground is yet red with blood. There are sad portions of our globe that as yet must have the name of Aceldama, the field of gore, there are spots where the horse-hoof is splashed with blood; where the very carcasses of men are the food of ravens and of jackalls, the mounds of Balaclava are as yet scarcely green, and the spots where rest the relics of our own murdered sisters and brothers are not covered with the memorial stone. War has ravaged whole districts; even in these late times the dogs of war are not yet muzzled. Oh! what shall we do to put an end to war? Mars, where is the chain that shall bind thee like Prometheus, to the rock? How shall we imprison thee for ever, thou cruel Moloch; how shall we for ever chain thee? Behold here is the great chain, that which one day is to bind the great serpent; it has the blood-red links of love. The gospel of Jesus Christ the crucified one, shall yet hush the clarion of war, and break the battle-bow in sunder.

Christopher stood and moved to take the dog, but Beatrix shook her head. “Thank you, Captain, but I have him in hand.” Albert wagged his tail wildly at the sight of Christopher and lunged toward him with a bark. “No,” Beatrix scolded, pulling him back and putting her hand briefly to his muzzle. “Your master is safe. No need to make a fuss. Come.” Reaching for a pillow from a low-backed settee, she placed it in the corner. Christopher watched as she led the dog to the pillow and removed the leash. Albert whimpered and refused to lie down, but he remained obediently in the corner. “Stay,” she told him. To Christopher’s amazement, Albert didn’t move. A dog who thought nothing of running through gunfire was completely cowed by Beatrix Hathaway. “I think he’ll behave,” Beatrix said, returning to the table. “But it would be best if we paid him no attention.” She sat, placed a napkin in her lap, and reached for her teacup. She smiled as she saw Christopher’s expression. “Be at ease, Captain,” she said gently. “The more relaxed you are, the calmer he will be.

Daddy?” “I’m right here, baby.” Lumps form in my throat, going all the way down into the core of me. It’s his voice. His. Right there. I reach toward the doorknob but I don’t get to turn it. Nick smashes at me with his head, pushing against my lower jaw and cheek, like a blow. His muzzle moves my head away from the door. He presses his face in between me and the wood. Fur gets in my mouth. I spit it out and push at him. “That’s my dad. My dad.” I slap the door. “He’s on the other side. The pixies will get him.” Nick shows me his teeth. “I can’t lose him again, Nick.” The wolf snarls like he’s ready to bite. My head jerks back and away, but then I steady myself. “Get . . . out . . . of . . . the . . . way.” Pushing against his thick neck, I slam my hands against him over and over again, pummeling him. He doesn’t budge. “Move!” I order. “Move.” “Zara, is there a wolf in there with you? Do not trust him,” my dad’s voice says, calmly, really calmly. I grab a fistful of fur and freeze. All at once it hits me that something is not right. My dad would never be calm if I was in my bedroom with a wolf. He’d be stressed and screaming, breaking the door down, kicking it in like he did once when I was really little and had accidentally locked myself in the bathroom and couldn’t get the lock out of the bolt because it was so old. He’d kicked that door down, splintering the wood, clutching me to him. He’d kissed my forehead over and over again. “I’d never let anything happen to you, princess,” he’d said. “You’re my baby.” My dad would be kicking the door in. My dad would be saving me. “Let me in,” he says. “Zara . . .” Letting go of Nick, I stagger backward. My hands fly up to my mouth, covering it. Nick stops snarling at me and wags his fluffy tail. How would my dad know that it is a wolf in here and not a dog? How would he know that it isn’t pixies? I shudder. Nick pounds next to me, pressing his side against my legs. I drop my hands and plunge my fingers into his fur, burying them there, looking for something. Maybe comfort. Maybe warmth. Maybe strength. Maybe all three.

Teddy’s hand trembled unsteadily with the weight of the Remington .45 pistol. September wanted to cry. Maybe it was time to give up. April was probably going to die; Combs had as good as said it. She couldn’t win, not when even Teddy was one of Lizzie’s henchmen. She leaned into Shadow’s ruff. His breath warmed her cheek. His tension screamed beneath her hands, a coiled spring aching for release. With sudden clarity, she knew exactly what to do. “You almost forgot this. I hate these things. Maybe you’ll need it—” “Shadow, show me…gun!” Shadow sprang. He muzzle-popped the target. The pistol spun away. Teddy cried out and grabbed his bruised hand. He staggered. Fell. The sofa softened his landing. “Why the hell did you do that?” “Oh crap, sorry, Teddy. Are you okay? Sorry, I just reacted. Yes, Shadow, good-dog.” Shadow leaped around, tail flailing with excitement. September scrambled to retrieve the gun—the safety was still on—and stuck it back into her pocket. She dried her palms on

None of us mentioned An Evening of Long Goodbyes, whose race had been so catastrophic that, by the end, neither Frank nor I could summon the will to gloat. He had begun badly, getting his head stuck in the gate and having to be extricated by the stewards, and continued with a series of humiliating and distinctly uncanine trips and stumbles, disgracing himself beyond redemption in the third lap, when his muzzle came off and, to the boos of the crowd, he abandoned the race to leap over the hoardings and snatch a hot dog from the hand of a small boy.

This dramatic wine has the burnish of torched sienna, that hint of Tuscan chickens, perhaps even pullets, that gamey, feathery aroma; a dishy first impression of guppies spawning and bracken roasting in the Castilian sun, and the high wind blowing from offshore when a garbage scow has recently run aground, not exactly fresh passion fruit, but passion fruit after it has been chewed by a horse that's just run through a heathery dale, you know, sort of sopping wet fetlocks and old dogs; and the finish, oh, just a portrait of nasturtium, or shuttlecocks dipped in quince jelly, or the stench on a fox's muzzle after he's eaten a number of small rodents or the ice caked in a refrigerator in a Paris apartment, or like new sandals, especially if the feet in them have been soaked in a bromide solution” and revisiting the nose is all rotty mulch sluicing out of a bilge pipe in a fetid stream of sweetly blooming hawthorn in a flighty perfume of freshly starched uniforms of a flight attendant in the first-class cabin in a manly swill of gassy medicinal opaline mordant porcine gratuitous acetate begonia-laden air freshener or like the fannings from a fire of souchong tea or like…Somebody make him stop! Just one more thing: Am I the only one who finds this wine a bit hirsute?

Characteristics: An ancient breed of northern Chinese origin, this all-purpose dog of China was used for hunting, herding, pulling and protection of the home. While primarily a companion today, his working origin must always be remembered when assessing true Chow type. The general outline of a fully-coated Chow. A powerful, sturdy, squarely built, upstanding dog of Arctic type, medium in size with strong muscular development and heavy bone. The body is compact, short coupled, broad and deep, the tail set high and carried closely to the back, the whole supported by four straight, strong, sound legs. Viewed from the side, the hind legs have little apparent angulation and the hock joint and metatarsals are directly beneath the hip joint. It is this structure which produces the characteristic short, stilted gait unique to the breed. The large head with broad, flat skull and short, broad and deep muzzle is proudly carried and accentuated by a ruff. Elegance and substance must be combined into a well balanced whole, never so massive as to outweigh his ability to be active, alert and agile. Clothed in a smooth or an offstanding rough double coat, the Chow is a masterpiece of beauty, dignity and naturalness, unique in his blue-black tongue, scowling expression and stilted gait.

…a wolf creature with yellow fur and black stripes. It were about the size of a real large dog. I can remember it to this day, cos it were the first one I had ever seen. It had a long muzzle and stripes on its sides like a tiger. The tail were thick and the fur so fine and smooth it were like it didn’t have hair. It’s like a wolf, I heard me mother say and indeed it looked like those wolves I seen in me fairytale books. It stared at us with huge black eyes, then it opened its jaw real slow til I thought it could swallow a baby. I’ll go bail if it were not the most bonny, handsomest thing I ever seen..

One smiles often when reading incidents in their labors. A string of packhorses is so driven as to break up a congregation, and a fire-engine is brought out and played over the throng to achieve the same purpose. Hand-bells, old kettles, marrowbones and cleavers, trumpets, drums, and entire bands of music were engaged to drown the Preachers' voices. In one case the parish bull was let loose, and in others dogs were set to fight. The preachers needed to have faces set like flints, and so indeed they had. John Furz says,: "As soon as I began to preach, a man came straight forward, and presented a gun at my face; swearing that he would blow my brains out, if I spake another word. However, I continued speaking, and he continued swearing, sometimes putting the muzzle of the gun to my mouth, sometimes against my ear. While we were singing the last hymn, he got behind me, fired the gun, and burned off part of my hair." After this, my brethren, We ought never to speak of petty interruptions or annoyances. The proximity of a blunderbuss in the hands of a son of Belial is not very conducive to collected thought and clear utterance, but the experience of Furz was probably no worse than that of John Nelson, who coolly says, "But when I was in the middle of my discourse, one at the outside of the congregation threw a stone, which cut me on the head: however, that made the people give -greater attention, especially when they saw the blood run down my face; so that all was quiet till I had done, and was Singing a hymn.

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.

Why hello!” she said, and the dog jumped and pressed its front paws against her knees, then actually licked her with a dry, paper tongue. Ceony laughed and scratched behind its ears. It panted with excitement. “Wherever did you come from?” The door squeaked again, announcing Mg. Thane’s arrival. He looked a little tired, but no worse for wear, and still wore that long indigo coat. “This one won’t give me hives,” he said with a smile that beamed in his eyes. “It’s not the same, but I thought it would do, for now.” Wide-eyed, Ceony slowly stood, the paper dog yapping in its whispery voice and nudging her ankles with its muzzle. “You made this?” she asked, feeling her ribs knit over her lungs. “This . . . this is what you were doing last night?” He scratched the back of his head. “Were you up? I apologize—I’m not used to having others in the house again.

Absently Ed’s hand strayed to the head of the dog beside him. “Gold fever,” he grinned. ‘We're due for another epidemic.” ‘The massive dog pushed Ed’s knee with his muzzle as if he, whose ancestors had drawn the sleds of more than one gold-maddened horde, understood the vainness of the quest.

After living together for so long, the two of them alone in one tiny room, they’ve ended up looking like each other. Old Salamano has reddish scabs on his face and wispy yellow hair. As for the dog, he’s sort of taken on his master’s stooped look, muzzle down, neck straining.

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

The bone dog rested his muzzle on her forearm. He had neither ears nor eyebrows, and yet she could practically feel the look he was giving her, tragic and hopeful as dogs often were.

It was past noon and the alley was deserted, overbright and shadow-less. She had just woken up from a nap. Long was at work. The dog was in a rectangular cage, its snout muzzled. It had been deposited on the curb in front of the restaurant, destined to be eaten in one of the seven ways advertised on the sign. It was a small, skeletal thing, with jutting hip bones Winnie could make out all the way from the balcony, but it was so filthy that she couldn't tell what color it was supposed to be. And as she watched, the animal lifted its head and locked eyes with Winnie, and Winnie had to hold on to the railing to steady herself because there was such raw anger in those eyes that her whole body shuddered in response. In that moment Winnie felt something strangely akin to envy. There was something wild and unquenchable even in a cage, in the last hours before it became someone's dinner that the dog possessed, which Winnie had never figured out how to cultivate correctly inside herself. She did not pity the dog; she pitied herself, and this was why she knew she had to free it.

feeling that something wasn't right. A second later, he knew what had woken him. He felt Missy's wet nose on his cheek as she poked him with her muzzle, then ran to the door hectically. Jeff sighed. "Is it that urgent, old girl?" The big, shaggy shepherd dog usually slept through the night, but Jeff understood that she needed to go outside. Missy now whimpered and started scratching at the rusty door of his hut. The old bed creaked when Jeff got up, his neck hurt badly, as it did every morning. The scar, where the augmentation implants had been removed, would never really heal, and he knew that. They had fucked it up during the removing procedure. But he would still rather endure the pain for the rest of his life than have that thing remaining inside him.

No trouble comes to us without divine permission. All the dogs of affliction are muzzled until God sets them free. Nay, against none of the seed of Israel can a dog move its tongue unless God permits. Troubles do not spring out of the ground like weeds that grow anyhow, but they grow as plants set in the garden. God appoints the weight and number of all our adversities. If He declares the number ten they cannot be eleven. If He wills that we bear a certain weight, no one can add half an ounce more. Since every trial comes from God, afflictions are no evidence that you are out of God's way.

That first night, after she'd made sure the door was locked and turned out the lights, Diana climbed into the loft and got into bed. She could see Willa's silhouette below her, sitting on her haunches at the foot of the stairs. "Come on, girl, it's okay," she said, patting the bed, and Willa had gathered herself, trotting up the stairs and leaping onto the mattress, her tail rotating madly. She licked Diana's hand, sniffed her way around the perimeter of the bed, then turned herself around three times and curled up on her side, with her back against Diana's hip. Diana wrapped her arm around the dog's head, and Willa rested her muzzle on Diana's forearm. That was how they fell asleep.

All your life you have been muzzled," he says. "So as not to disturb the architecture of the world. But a muzzled dog thinks only of its misery and its shackles. They may rob your body of its power, but they cannot take your mind.

Dogs barked behind dark windows. Their owners made no appearance. Except, perhaps, when the dogs licked their blood-dirty muzzles.

That tail! Was there ever such another? A man, they say, may wear his heart on his sleeve, certainly you wore yours on your tail. Other dogs I have known wagged their tails in pleasure or drew them close in fear or apology. Yours never drooped. You waved it like a banner and it was seldom that it was absolutely still. - A breeder told me that its carriage was too “gay” for showing, that your muzzle was not heavy enough, that your eyes were too large. He agreed, and well he might, that they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen in a dog’s head and that you had a “grand little body.” Out walking, the waving of that tail gave our progress the air of a procession. It was a hardened hater of dogs who had not a smile for you. You had none of the dourness and reserve attributed to your breed. From morning to night you craved friendliness, and you were almost as greedy for it as you were for food. Lying stretched asleep on the floor, you would seem suddenly to be conscious of something. Life stirring about you, perhaps—and you approved of life with your whole soul. Your tail would thud against the floor in ecstasy,

The wolves echoed his threat, crouching low, their muzzles thrust between the lowest bar and the floor of the cage. The two in the adjoining compartment repeated the fighting cry. In the instant every beast in the menagerie had taken up the challenge with snarl and cough and roar of defiance against their sworn enemy, the Dog, outlaw of the wild, deserter of the clan, ally of Man the Conqueror. The primeval hatred flared until the place was a pandemonium of brutish enmity.

Sunsets are loved because they vanish. Flowers are loved because they go. The dogs of the field and the cats of the kitchen are loved because soon they must depart. These are not the sole reasons, but at the heart of morning welcomes and afternoon laughters is the promise of farewell. In the gray muzzle of an old dog we see goodbye. In the tired face of an old friend we read long journeys beyond returns.

Fitz, there’s nothing the matter with you that I’ve ever seen before. At least, whatever’s the matter with you isn’t in your guts or blood. If you were a bit older, I’d suspect you had woman problems. You act like a soldier on a three-day drunk, but without the wine. Boy, what’s the matter with you?” He looked down on me with sincere worry. It was the same look he wore when he was afraid a mare was going to miscarry, or when hunters brought back dogs that boars had gotten to. It reached me, and without meaning to, I quested out toward him. As always, the wall was there, but Vixen whined lightly and put her muzzle against my cheek. I tried to express what was inside me without betraying Chade. “I’m just so alone now,” I heard myself say, and even to me it sounded like a feeble complaint. “Alone?” Burrich’s brows knit. “Fitz, I’m right here. How can you say you’re alone?” And there the conversation ended, with both of us looking at each other and neither understanding at all.

We had stepped into their realm. As soon as I was certain, I drew Shadow to me again. As we moved deeper into the faerie world, Shadow had grown larger. He was now twice the size, his muzzle coming up to my chest. His snout was sharper, wolfish, his paws enormous. But he followed me as calmly as ever, his black eyes trusting.

Living alone had made me sensitive. When Will was still at the farm, I didn't differentiate the scent of wild fennel from that of slowly ripening blackberries or notice how cloud patterns changed from season to season. I didn't scan the sky to anticipate the weather or feel the air with my fingertips to decide whether to hang washing on the line. Sometimes I thought I might be acquiring some of Willow's talents. When she put up her muzzle into the breeze, her nostrils fluttered as if she were riffling the pages of a book, learning secrets carried on the wind. It seemed to me I sensed almost as much as she did.

Shadow lay curled at my side and rolled upright with a delighted snort when he sensed I was awake. He shoved his huge muzzle into my face and licked me, while I half patted, half swatted him away. I'm afraid his breath is immune to glamor and smells exactly as you'd expect a Black Hound's breath to smell---rather deathly.

Mother is crying at the hands of Man. Through selfish desire, Man has lost his identity, and no longer knows himself in the looking glass. He has forsaken all that is pure and precious, blinded by the devil Greed. The world and her children are dying at the hands of Man — adult Man; innocence has been lost. You must be reminded of who you are and why. I have come here out of love; I don’t want you to forget this when the apocalypse takes hold. Mother and I must be cruel to be kind, just as the bitch dog eats her deformed young. Man must learn to love again as seething hatred has rotted his blackened heart. Man is to be silenced and muzzled like a vicious dog. Man will no longer be able to breathe the air freely. Man will no longer be able to touch, hug, caress, and feel what it is to be human. Man will no longer recognise himself or others because his humanity will be taken from him and he will be muzzled like a rabid dog. Only then will he appreciate what has been taken from him. The world has become a cold place, but it will be colder, until he learns what is to be a warm human being once again. Only when Man has to pay for free things, like air, will he understand what it once was to be a human.

I grabbed her and held her close, whispering, “Shhh,” as I kept looking and listening. Kenjii nudged me, as if to say, That’s no welcome. I pulled the rope in. The end wasn’t broken, as I’d hoped, but as I ran it through my fingers I saw red smears. I took a better look. Blood. Someone had been holding her and Kenjii had wrenched so hard she’d scraped the skin from his hands as she broke free. I hugged her. “They couldn’t hold you, huh? Good girl.” “Maya?” I stood. It was Sam, coming through the trees. Daniel and Corey appeared behind her. Seeing the dog beside me, Daniel grinned. “We got one escapee, at least,” he said. “Only one,” I said as I tugged off the muzzle. “I found Hayley. She managed to communicate with me. It was a trap. There was no way…” I took a deep breath. “I wanted to try rescuing her anyway, but she said no.” “Too bad dogs can’t talk,” Sam said. I glanced over at her. “Um, we’re all feeling bad about Hayley,” Corey said. “Don’t interrupt by wishing we could question the dog.” “That’s not what I meant. Hayley could tell you it was a trap. He can’t.” “Kenjii’s a she,” I said. “Whatever. My point is that your dog has conveniently escaped, just like Hayley did. You don’t think that’s a trap?” “If it is, then we’ve already been caught.” I looked around. “Huh. I don’t see the guys with guns yet.” “Because they’ve put a tracking device on her. Or in her.” I removed the rope. Then I took off her collar and handed it to Daniel to check while I ran my fingers over her, looking for tender spots. “It’s clean,” Daniel said, handing me back the collar. “If she was still wearing the muzzle and rope, then they--” “--wanted it to look like she really escaped,” Sam said. “There’s blood on the rope,” I said. “That means she pulled free from whoever had her.” “Or they’re very detail-oriented.” “Oh, please,” Corey said. “Seriously?” I turned to Sam. “So what do you suggest?” “Tie her to a tree and keep going.” I stared at her. “I hope you’re not serious,” Daniel said. “How about we tie you to a tree?” Corey said.

They couldn’t hold you, huh? Good girl.” “Maya?” I stood. It was Sam, coming through the trees. Daniel and Corey appeared behind her. Seeing the dog beside me, Daniel grinned. “We got one escapee, at least,” he said. “Only one,” I said as I tugged off the muzzle. “I found Hayley. She managed to communicate with me. It was a trap. There was no way…” I took a deep breath. “I wanted to try rescuing her anyway, but she said no.” “Too bad dogs can’t talk,” Sam said. I glanced over at her. “Um, we’re all feeling bad about Hayley,” Corey said. “Don’t interrupt by wishing we could question the dog.” “That’s not what I meant. Hayley could tell you it was a trap. He can’t.” “Kenjii’s a she,” I said. “Whatever.

The cub, poor thing, was a fine little fellow, with almost perfectly white fur and a dark muzzle; it was about the size of one of our smallest dogs. When they came up, he sat down on his mother's body, remained there quite still, and seeming for the present to take matters calmly. Henriksen put a strap round his neck, and when the mother was conveyed to the channel he followed quite willingly. But when, on arriving at the ship, he found he was to be separated from his mother and brought on board, it was quite another story. He resisted with all his strength, and was in a perfect rage. He got worse when he was let loose under the companion-hood on board. He carried on like a frenzied being, biting, tearing, growling, and howling with wild rage, like a veritable fiend, ceasing only as long as he was occupied in devouring the pieces of meat thrown to him. Never have I seen in any one creature such a combination of all the most savage qualities of wild beasts as I found in this little monster. And he was still quite a cub! In the evening, I gave orders to rid us of this unpleasant passenger, and Mogstad ended his days with a well-aimed blow of the hatchet.

Sometimes it is not until after the animal has snapped at me that the owner will decide to mention that the dog has a history of biting. Since owners never want to believe that their dog could hurt someone, they are reluctant to have a muzzle placed on their pet. This is one of the few things that really upsets me.

perishable and mercurial”: For Laurent Rambaud see Chrisafis (2010). The reporter Ryan Jacobs documents the foul play that occurs all the way along truffle supply lines. Some poisoners use meatballs laced with strychnine, others poison pools of water in the forest so that dogs with muzzles can still be poisoned, some deploy meat spiked with shards of glass, others use rat poison or antifreeze. Based on vets’ reports, hundreds of poisoned dogs receive treatment each truffle season. The authorities have taken to using poison-sniffing dogs to patrol certain woods (Jacobs [2019], pp. 130–34). In 2003, The Guardian reported that Michel Tournayre, a French truffle expert, had his truffle dog stolen. Tournayre suspected that the thieves had not sold the dog but rather were using her to steal truffles from other people’s land

The legs were little more than elongated rectangles and the torso v-shaped, wider at the shoulders than the hips. The head was a simple oval, scratched into the stone without eyes or mouth. There was no neck to speak of. Then came a canine. There was no mistaken it: rear legs, ears, muzzle and teeth and down on all-fours. Maybe it was a wolf, maybe a coyote or a dog. The third was the weird one. It appeared to be neither man nor canine, but some combination of the two. It had the same v-shaped torso, but the ears were definitely canine, the head level at the top and barely protruding above the shoulders. There were no facial features.

Men don’t lie to whores. I once had a lover who had been MI5. He was gentle, though, and sometimes cried after he fucked me. The man who killed me was rough and never cried. He kept two fierce Alsatians in his bathtub. That’s the trouble with Hong Kong flats—too small for dogs, especially large ones, but some people insist on having them. This man, an English police inspector, he was vice. Those dogs were hungry the night they ripped me apart and almost tore his left hand off in the process. He still has the scar. The photo in the newspaper caught it when he put up his hand to cover his face the day he was arrested, although that happened years later, long after I was gone. Jail ended his career, but he just went to the mercenaries. There’s always a place in the world for the rough ones. About my death, though, that was an accident. He lost control of his hounds and they savaged my jugular and feasted on my flesh until he muzzled them. Afterward he hid my corpse because what else could he do? First, however, he cleanly sliced off my hands and feet to be found with no canine teeth marks, separated from the rest of me.

and stubbier. Hungry was the runt of the litter, of course, and it bothered me that Fast and Sister always abandoned me to play with each other, as if Hungry and I belonged together out of some sort of natural order in the pack. Since Fast and Sister were more interested in each other than the rest of the family, I punished them by depriving them of my company, going off by myself deep into the culvert. I was sniffing at something deliciously dead and rotten one day when right in front of me a tiny animal exploded into the air—a frog! Delighted, I leaped forward, attempting to pounce on it with my paws, but the frog jumped again. It was afraid, although all I wanted to do was play and probably wouldn’t eat it. Fast and Sister sensed my excitement and came stampeding into the culvert, knocking me over as they skidded to a stop in the slimy water. The frog hopped and Fast lunged at it, using my head as a springboard. I snarled at him, but he ignored me. Sister and Fast fell all over themselves to get at the frog, who managed to land in a pool of water and kick away in silent, rapid strokes. Sister put her muzzle in the pond and snorted, sneezing water over Fast and me. Fast climbed on her back, the frog—my frog!—forgotten. Sadly, I turned away. It looked as though I

Three times a day, for the next three days, until they’ve buried my friend’s father, until they come back, the dog and I make the same rounds. I grow fond of the animal, of his ears, always alert, and of his careful gait, his determined muzzle.

They couldn’t hold you, huh? Good girl.” “Maya?” I stood. It was Sam, coming through the trees. Daniel and Corey appeared behind her. Seeing the dog beside me, Daniel grinned. “We got one escapee, at least,” he said. “Only one,” I said as I tugged off the muzzle. “I found Hayley. She managed to communicate with me. It was a trap. There was no way…” I took a deep breath. “I wanted to try rescuing her anyway, but she said no.” “Too bad dogs can’t talk,” Sam said. I glanced over at her. “Um, we’re all feeling bad about Hayley,” Corey said. “Don’t interrupt by wishing we could question the dog.

My point is that your dog has conveniently escaped, just like Hayley did. You don’t think that’s a trap?” “If it is, then we’ve already been caught.” I looked around. “Huh. I don’t see the guys with guns yet.” “Because they’ve put a tracking device on her. Or in her.” I removed the rope. Then I took off her collar and handed it to Daniel to check while I ran my fingers over her, looking for tender spots. “It’s clean,” Daniel said, handing me back the collar. “If she was still wearing the muzzle and rope, then they--” “--wanted it to look like she really escaped,” Sam said. “There’s blood on the rope,” I said. “That means she pulled free from whoever had her.” “Or they’re very detail-oriented.

We’ll get him eventually, but I sure wouldn’t want anything happening before we do.” Nolan shook the sheriff’s hand. “No hard feelings, Sheriff. You were doing your job. I’ll have to admit, the last three weeks were like a vacation, especially when you started leaving the jail cell door open. I know I haven’t eaten that good in a long time.” The two men laughed. Nolan shrugged into his coat and handed his rifle to Rocky. “Here you go, Button. You can carry that for me. Just be sure you don’t let that muzzle point at anyone.” “Yes, sir,” Rocky said. His little chest puffed out like a strutting rooster as he followed Nolan out of the sheriff’s office. The two of them headed down to the stable. Free. It feels good. I wonder if Melinda will have me? I hope I’ve found a home. It’s about time for an old, broken-down cowboy like me. In fact, I think I might buy the Slash Bar. Couldn’t ask for a better neighbor than Cletus. Rocky was chattering away as they walked to the stable. Nolan was looking forward to seeing Duke. They neared the door to the barn and started to turn in when Whitey growled. Without pausing, Nolan pushed Rocky to the ground and drew his Colt. Grady was standing deep inside the shadowed stable. He had his rifle against his shoulder, hammer back, waiting for Nolan. Lester was lying at his feet, unconscious. He pulled the trigger as Nolan came into view, but Nolan dove. He moved just enough so that Grady’s bullet hit the door facing where he had been standing when Whitey growled his warning. Nolan watched as Grady attempted to worked the lever of the Winchester, holding his fire, not wanting to kill the young man. “Don’t do it, Grady. Drop the rifle.” “I’m going to kill you, Parker.” He waited until he could wait no longer. Grady continued to fumble, trying to close the lever, his bum finger still hampering him. Nolan had been in several gunfights. He knew the smart move was always to shoot for the body. He had learned that as a young man and had never deviated. But today was different. He raised his Colt in front of him and took a steady aim. It took only a slight amount of pressure on the sensitive trigger to send a 255 grain chunk of lead flying toward Grady. The bullet slammed into the forearm of the Winchester, coursed down the right side, plowing into the knuckles of the index and trigger finger of Grady’s right hand, then drove through the hand, exiting out at the wrist. The boy screamed like a panther and fell to the ground, cradling his ruined right hand in his left. Blood poured from between his remaining fingers. Nolan glanced at Rocky, made sure he was okay, and then moved quickly to Grady. Grady was moaning and rocking back and forth. “You ruined my shooting hand.” “I could have killed you. Prison will give you plenty of time to think about that. You’ve got a chance now, boy. Change your ways.” He reached down and pulled Grady’s six-gun from its holster and walked out of the stable.

But wolves and Huskies, despite surface similarities, are very different creatures. For instance, closer study reveals that the Siberian’s brain capacity, muzzle-length, and bite-power are less than that of wolves. And Huskies, like all dogs, come into heat twice a year, rather than only once (like wolves). Certainly a Husky’s temperament is that of the thoroughly domesticated dog. Plus, no wolf has blue eyes, a common characteristic in Siberians.

Reg was never going to ace the Exams, not in a millennium. In fact, he didn’t even bother to take them. He was the sort of kindly, dreamy boy who is prevailed upon by whim and instinct, and if he sometimes found trouble, it was always the charming kind, such as when a dog gets his muzzle stuck in a jar of peanut butter.

Oh my gulay, you have a doxie too?!" Quinn, who had the dog wrapped in a soft blanket, kissed the top of the dog's head. "This is my baby, Cleopatra Louise, but she goes by Cleo. We had a bit of a scare earlier, but now I know she's learned how to take the lid off a plastic container of chocolate-covered almonds. Won't be making that mistake again." Cleo was a brown short-haired mini dachshund just like Longganisa, but she seemed to be considerably older since there was a bit of gray around her muzzle. She wore a cute bandana printed with sparkly crowns, and peered out from her blanket burrito with a calm, queenly expression. I asked if I could pet her and held my fingers in front of Cleo after Quinn said yes. After a quick sniff, the dog bowed her head and let me pet her. What a good girl.

You are so stupid.” Astonishment broke through his pain. Could I still undo what I had done? “I lied!' I spat my whisper at him. “I knew you read my journal. I knew you read my dreams. I wrote there what I thought would hurt you most! I lied to hurt you. For letting him be dead while you lived. For being loved by him more than he loved me!” I took a breath. “He loved you more than he ever loved any of the rest of us!” “What?” His mouth hung open after that word, his eyes wide. He made a stupid face of astonishment. As if he hadn’t always known he was loved the best. That he was Beloved. “Stupid again! Asking stupid questions. Go with him. Go now. It’s you he wants, not me. Go!” When had my voice risen to a shout? I did not know, I did not care. Let it be a spectacle, let all the camp be roused and folk stare at me. For that was what was happening. Dutiful had come to his feet, a sword in hand, looking around for an enemy. They were all half-awake, roused by my shouts. Hap was staring with his mouth hanging open. Nettle’s hands clutched her face in horror at the truth I had shouted. And my father lifted a hand. His face was so ravaged, it was like looking at death itself. Except for the smooth, silvered part of it. By creeping degrees, his human hand lifted. He turned it over, showing a bloody palm. His cracked lips moved. Beloved. He could not say the word, but I knew it. So did his Fool. He rose, the blanket that had draped his shoulders falling to the earth. He pulled the glove from his hand and let it fall. He walked uncertainly, like a puppet with his strings pulled by an apprentice puppeteer. He reached my father. So tenderly, he set his hand into my father’s. Then he leaned down until he lay upon the wolf, his face turned to my father’s face. He put his arm across my father’s bony back. He drew him close and set his silver fingers to the wolf. For a moment all was still. Then I saw Beloved’s fingers stir the soft fur of the wolf’s back. The firelit bodies of my father and Beloved softened and merged. I felt something I could not describe. Like the whoosh of air when a door opens, and then closes again, but it was in the Skill-current, and so strong that I saw Nettle flinch at it, too. Briefer than an instant, I saw light striate out from them. A nexus, a node on the path of fate. Then it was finished. Something finally complete, as it should have been. Their colors dimmed and the wolf’s eyes gleamed. It was slow and it was sudden, that they were gone and only the wolf remained. The snarl faded. The wolf’s ears pricked and swiveled. His broad head turned slowly. He lifted his muzzle and snuffed the night air. Such eyes he had! They were a darkness full of the brilliance of life. For one brief instant, light caught in them and glowed green. We were all motionless, as if a huge predator faced us. Then, like a wet dog, the wolf shook himself and tiny fragments of stone flew in all directions, as if he had rolled in them. His slow look roved over us, pausing at each in turn. His gaze lingered on me the last. His eyes were both hard and amused. Those we’re astonishing lies, cub. And the very last one the most inspired of all. You have your father’s talent for it. He have one final shake of his coat. I go to the hunt!

You are so stupid.” Astonishment broke through his pain. Could I still undo what I had done? “I lied!' I spat my whisper at him. “I knew you read my journal. I knew you read my dreams. I wrote there what I thought would hurt you most! I lied to hurt you. For letting him be dead while you lived. For being loved by him more than he loved me!” I took a breath. “He loved you more than he ever loved any of the rest of us!” “What?” His mouth hung open after that word, his eyes wide. He made a stupid face of astonishment. As if he hadn’t always known he was loved the best. That he was Beloved. “Stupid again! Asking stupid questions. Go with him. Go now. It’s you he wants, not me. Go!” When had my voice risen to a shout? I did not know, I did not care. Let it be a spectacle, let all the camp be roused and folk stare at me. For that was what was happening. Dutiful had come to his feet, a sword in hand, looking around for an enemy. They were all half-awake, roused by my shouts. Hap was staring with his mouth hanging open. Nettle’s hands clutched her face in horror at the truth I had shouted. And my father lifted a hand. His face was so ravaged, it was like looking at death itself. Except for the smooth, silvered part of it. By creeping degrees, his human hand lifted. He turned it over, showing a bloody palm. His cracked lips moved. Beloved. He could not say the word, but I knew it. So did his Fool. He rose, the blanket that had draped his shoulders falling to the earth. He pulled the glove from his hand and let it fall. He walked uncertainly, like a puppet with his strings pulled by an apprentice puppeteer. He reached my father. So tenderly, he set his hand into my father’s. Then he leaned down until he lay upon the wolf, his face turned to my father’s face. He put his arm across my father’s bony back. He drew him close and set his silver fingers to the wolf. For a moment all was still. Then I saw Beloved’s fingers stir the soft fur of the wolf’s back. The firelit bodies of my father and Beloved softened and merged. I felt something I could not describe. Like the whoosh of air when a door opens, and then closes again, but it was in the Skill-current, and so strong that I saw Nettle flinch at it, too. Briefer than an instant, I saw light striate out from them. A nexus, a node on the path of fate. Then it was finished. Something finally complete, as it should have been. Their colors dimmed and the wolf’s eyes gleamed. It was slow and it was sudden, that they were gone and only the wolf remained. The snarl faded. The wolf’s ears pricked and swiveled. His broad head turned slowly. He lifted his muzzle and snuffed the night air. Such eyes he had! They were a darkness full of the brilliance of life. For one brief instant, light caught in them and glowed green. We were all motionless, as if a huge predator faced us. Then, like a wet dog, the wolf shook himself and tiny fragments of stone flew in all directions, as if he had rolled in them. His slow look roved over us, pausing at each in turn. His gaze lingered on me the last. His eyes were both hard and amused. Those we’re astonishing lies, cub. And the very lady one the most inspired of all. You have your father’s talent for it. He have one final shake of his coat. I go to the hunt!