Paw Dog Quotes

Alright then, I guess that’s settled,” Lilly said, then she turned to Fane, “Lay a paw on my little girl and you will be a three legged Lassie, got it?” Fane winced and then asked, “You both do realize I’m a wolf not a dog right?

People leave imprints on our lives, shaping who we become in much the same way that a symbol is pressed into the page of a book to tell you who it comes from. Dogs, however, leave paw prints on our lives and our souls, which are as unique as fingerprints in every way.

The love of a bone dog, she thought, bending her head down over the paw again. All that I am worth these days. Then again, few humans were truly worth the love of a living dog. Some gifts you could never deserve.

Why, that dog is practically a Phi Beta Kappa. She can sit up and beg, and she can give her paw -- I don't say she will but she can.

Her father had taught her about hands. About a dog's paws. Whenever her father was alone with a dog in a house he would lean over and smell the skin at the base of its paw. This, he would say, as if coming away from a brandy snifter, is the greatest smell in the world! A bouquet! Great rumours of travel! She would pretend disgust, but the dog's paw was a wonder: the smell of it never suggested dirt. It's a cathedral! her father had said, so-and-so's garden, that field of grasses, a walk through cyclamen--a concentration of hints of all the paths the animal had taken during the day.

LITTLE DOGS RHAPSODY IN THE NIGHT (PERCY THREE) He puts his cheek against mine and makes small, expressive sounds. And when I'm awake, or awake enough he turns upside down, his four paws in the air and his eyes dark and fervent. Tell me you love me, he says. Tell me again. Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over he gets to ask it. I get to tell.

A dog is not a thing. A thing is replaceable. A dog is not. A thing is disposable. A dog is not. A thing doesn’t have a heart. A dog’s heart is bigger than any “thing” you can ever own.

Dogs are not like cats, who amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw. Men made dogs, they took wolves and gave them human things--unnecessary intelligence, names, a desire to belong, and a twitching inferiority complex. All dogs dream wolf dreams, and know they're dreaming of biting their Maker. Every dog knows, deep in his heart, that he is a Bad Dog...

Of course when you were running with the bottom dogs, what you mostly saw were paws, claws, and assholes.

Whoever declared that love at first sight doesn’t exist has never witnessed the purity of a puppy or looked deep into a puppy’s eyes. If they did, their lives would change considerably.

Fireheart dashed to the warrior's side. Cloudtail was standing stiff-legged, every hair in his pelt on end as if he were facing an enemy. His eyes were fixed on the limp heap of tabby fur huddled at his paws. "Why, Fireheart?" Cloudtail wailed. "Why her?" Fireheart knew, but rage and grief made it hard to speak. "Because Tigerstar wants the pack to get a taste of cat blood," he rasped. The dead cat lying in front of them was Brindleface.

Lea stood upon a fallen log ahead of us, staring ahead. Mouse walked up to her. Gggrrrr rawf arrrgggrrrrarrrr," I said. Mouse gave me an impatient glance, and somehow--I don't know if it was something in his body language or what--I became aware that he was telling me to sit down and shut up or he'd come over and make me. I sat down. Something in me really didn't like that idea, but when I looked around, I saw that everyone else had done it too, and that made me feel better. Mouse said, again in what sounded like perfectly clear English, "Funny. Now restore them." Lea turned to look at the big dog and said, "Do you dare to give me commands, hound?" Not your hound," Mouse said. I didn't know how he was doing it. His mouth wasn't moving or anything. "Restore them before I rip your ass off. Literally rip it off." The Leanansidhe tilted her head back and let out a low laugh. "You are far from your sources of power here, my dear demon." I live with a wizard. I cheat." He took a step toward her and his lips peeled up from his fangs in unmistakable hostility. "You want to restore them? Or do I kill you and get them back that way?" Lea narrowed her eyes. Then she said, "You're bluffing." One of the big dog's huge, clawed paws dug at the ground, as if bracing him for a leap, and his growl seemed to . . . I looked down and checked. It didn't seem to shake the ground. The ground was actually shaking for several feet in every direction of the dog. Motes of blue light began to fall from his jaws, thickly enough that it looked quite a bit like he was foaming at the mouth. "Try me." The Leanansidhe shook her head slowly. Then she said, "How did Dresden ever win you?" He didn't," Mouse said. "I won him.

I thought you didn’t like animals.” “I love animals. Where did you get that idea?” Marmie put her paws on his leg, and he picked her up. “From my dog?” “That’s a dog? Jeez, I’m sorry. I thought it was an industrial-waste accident.” His long, lean fingers slid through the cat’s fur. “Slytherin.” She slapped the lid back onto the flour container. What kind of man liked a cat more than he liked an exceptionally fine French poodle? “What did you call me?” “It’s a literary reference. You wouldn’t understand.” “Harry Potter. And I don’t appreciate name calling.

We're all on our own, aren't we? That's what it boils down to. We come into this world on our own- in Hawaii, as I did, or New York, or China, or Africa or Montana- and we leave it in the same way, on our own, wherever we happen to be at the time- in a plane, in our beds, in a car, in a space shuttle, or in a field of flowers. And between those times, we try to connect along the way with others who are also on their own. If we're lucky, we have a mother who reads to us. We have a teacher or two along the way who make us feel special. We have dogs who do the stupid dog tricks we teach them and who lie on our bed when we're not looking, because it smells like us, and so we pretend not to notice the paw prints on the bedspread. We have friends who lend us their favorite books. Maybe we have children, and grandchildren, and funny mailmen and eccentric great-aunts, and uncles who can pull pennies out of their ears. All of them teach us stuff. They teach us about combustion engines and the major products of Bolivia, and what poems are not boring, and how to be kind to each other, and how to laugh, and when the vigil is in our hands, and when we have to make the best of things even though it's hard sometimes. Looking back together, telling our stories to one another, we learn how to be on our own.

I had to go away for a few days so I called the kennel and made an appointment. I guess Bear overheard the conversation. “Love and company,” said Bear, “are the adornments that change everything. I know they’ll be nice to me, but I’ll be sad, sad, sad.” And pitifully he wrung his paws. I cancelled the trip.

In his essay,Agastya had said that his real ambition was to be a domesticated male stray dog because they lived the best life.They were assured of food,and because they were stray they didn't have to guard a house or beg or shake paws or fetch trifles or be clean or anything similarly meaningless to earn their food.They were servile and sycophantic when hungry;once fed,and before sleep,they wagged their tails perfunctorily whenever their hosts passes,as an investment for future meals.A stray dog was free,he slept a lot,barked unexpectedly and only when he wanted to,and got a lot of sex.

There will always be detours in the fascinating game called life. Find the path to your heart’s desires, and stay on course.

I happened to look up and there it was. All over and done with, at last. I sat on for a few moments with the ball in my hand and the dog yelping and pawing at me. (Pause.) Moments. Her moments, my moments (Pause.) The dog's moments.

Your daddy is standing in a swimming pool out a little bit from the edge. You are, let’s say, three years old and standing on the edge of the pool. Daddy holds out his arms to you and says, “Jump, I’ll catch you. I promise.” Now, how do you make your daddy look good at that moment? Answer: trust him and jump. Have faith in him and jump. That makes him look strong and wise and loving. But if you won’t jump, if you shake your head and run away from the edge, you make your daddy look bad. It looks like you are saying, “he can’t catch me” or “he won’t catch me” or “it’s not a good idea to do what he tells me to do.” And all three of those make your dad look bad. But you don’t want to make God look bad. So you trust him. Then you make him look good–which he really is. And that is what we mean when we say, “Faith glorifies God” or “Faith gives God glory.” It makes him look as good as he really is. So trusting God is really important. And the harder it seems for him to fulfill his promise, the better he looks when you trust him. Suppose that you are at the deep end of a pool by the diving board. You are four years old and can’t swim, and your daddy is at the other end of the pool. Suddenly a big, mean dog crawls under the fence and shows his teeth and growls at you and starts coming toward you to bite you. You crawl up on the diving board and walk toward the end to get away from him. The dog puts his front paws up on the diving board. Just then, your daddy sees what’s happening and calls out, “Johnny, jump in the water. I’ll get you.” Now, you have never jumped from one meter high and you can’t swim and your daddy is not underneath you and this water is way over your head. How do you make your daddy look good in that moment? You jump. And almost as soon as you hit the water, you feel his hands under your arms and he treads water holding you safely while someone chases the dog away. Then he takes you to the side of the pool. We give glory to God when we trust him to do what he has promised to do–especially when all human possibilities are exhausted. Faith glorifies God. That is why God planned for faith to be the way we are justified.

Each boy stood, slouched yet stiff, hands in pockets. If the dog had pockets, she'd have had her paws in them, too, for sure.

Dogs possess a quality that's rare among humans--the ability to make you feel valued just by being you--and it was something of a miracle to me to be on the receiving end of all that acceptance. The dog didn't care what I looked like, or what I did for a living, or what a train wreck of a life I'd led before I got her, or what we did from day to day. She just wanted to be with me, and that awareness gave me a singular sensation of delight. I kept her in a crate at night until she was housebroken, and in the mornings I'd let her up onto the bed with me. She'd writhe with joy at that. She'd wag her tail and squirm all over me, lick my neck and face and eyes and ears, get her paws all tangled in my braid, and I'd just lie there, and I'd feel those oceans of loss from my past ebbing back, ebbing away, and I'd hear myself laugh out loud.

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.

Dear brother, I feel what Pa and Ma instinctively think about me (I don’t say reasonably). There’s a similar reluctance about taking me into the house as there would be about having a large, shaggy dog in the house. He’ll come into the room with wet paws — and then, he’s so shaggy. He’ll get in everyone’s way. And he barks so loudly. In short — it’s a dirty animal. Very well — but the animal has a human history and, although it’s a dog, a human soul, and one with finer feelings at that, able to feel what people think about him, which an ordinary dog can’t do. And I, admitting that I am a sort of dog, accept them as they are. Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo, Nuenen, 15 December 1883

Dogs are miracles with paws

A dog can be a living work of art, a constant reminder of the exquisite design and breathtaking detail of nature, beauty on four paws.

You left the door open.“ “Fritz is bringing me some smokes.” “You’re not lighting up around my dog” (…) V looked over at the dog. George’s big boxy head was down on his paws, his kind brown eyes seeming to apologize for the shutdown on the whole light-up routine. Vishous stroked the bag of Turkish delicious like a pathetic loser. “Mind if I just rolled up a couple?” “One flick on the flint and I’ll pound you into the carpet.

The truth is, we live. We can't spend every moment treasuring the things we love. We still get mad at the dog for tracking mud through the house, even though one day we would give anything to have her muddy paws back on our white carpet. We still roll our eyes at our parents' needy voicemails, even though one day those recorded moments will be all we have left.

For one brief, the great black dog reared onto its hind legs and placed its front paws on Harry's shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoved Harry away toward the train door hissing, "For heaven's sake act more like a dog, Sirius!

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

Win was flabbergasted when he heard me say to the dog: “We don’t put our paws on the table while folks are eating, Manch.

Dogs do not lie...but we do keep secrets.

I turned at a noise from the hallway—but it was just Bones. He was lying on his back, licking his paws. If only men were as easy to handle as dogs. Wait a second—they totally are.

Dogs are not like cats, who amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw.

You are my baby boy, furry with four paws and such, tender and cuddly I love you so much! You are loving and sweet and oh such a joy! I'm so very happy that you are my baby boy!

Signs and wonders, eh? Pity if there is nothing wonderful in signs, and significant in wonders! There's a clue somewhere; wait a bit; hist--hark! By Jove, I have it! Look, you Doubloon, your zodiac here is the life of man in one round chapter; and now I'll read it off, straight out of the book. Come, Almanack! To begin: there's Aries, or the Ram--lecherous dog, he begets us; then, Taurus, or the Bull--he bumps us the first thing; then Gemini, or the Twins--that is, Virtue and Vice; we try to reach Virtue, when lo! comes Cancer the Crab, and drags us back; and here, going from Virtue, Leo, a roaring Lion, lies in the path--he gives a few fierce bites and surly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail Virgo, the Virgin! that's our first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes Libra, or Scales--happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we are very sad about that, Lord! how we suddenly jump, as Scorpio, or the Scorpion, stings us in rear; we are curing the wound, when whang comes the arrows all round; Sagittarius, or the Archer, is amusing himself. As we pluck out the shafts, stand aside! here's the battering-ram, Capricornus, or the Goat; full tilt, he comes rushing and headlong we are tossed; when Aquarius, or the the Waterbearer, pours out his whole deluge and drowns us; and, to wind up, with Pisces, or the Fishes, we sleep. There's a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the sun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and hearty.

Liberty On my notebooks from school On my desk and the trees On the sand, on the snow I write your name On every page read On all the white sheets Stone blood paper or ash I write your name On the golden images On the soldier’s weapons On the crowns of kings I write your name On the jungle, the desert The nests and the bushes On the echo of childhood I write your name On the wonder of nights On the white bread of days On the seasons engaged I write your name On all my blue rags On the pond mildewed sun On the lake living moon I write your name On the fields, the horizon The wings of the birds On the windmill of shadows I write your name On the foam of the clouds On the sweat of the storm On dark insipid rain I write your name On the glittering forms On the bells of colour On physical truth I write your name On the wakened paths On the opened ways On the scattered places I write your name On the lamp that gives light On the lamp that is drowned On my house reunited I write your name On the bisected fruit Of my mirror and room On my bed’s empty shell I write your name On my dog greedy tender On his listening ears On his awkward paws I write your name On the sill of my door On familiar things On the fire’s sacred stream I write your name On all flesh that’s in tune On the brows of my friends On each hand that extends I write your name On the glass of surprises On lips that attend High over the silence I write your name On my ravaged refuges On my fallen lighthouses On the walls of my boredom I write your name On passionless absence On naked solitude On the marches of death I write your name On health that’s regained On danger that’s past On hope without memories I write your name By the power of the word I regain my life I was born to know you And to name you LIBERTY

you you’re a beast, she said your big white belly and those hairy feet. you never cut your nails and you have fat hands paws like a cat your bright red nose and the biggest balls I’ve ever seen. you shoot sperm like a whale shoots water out of the hole in its back. beast beast beast, she kissed me, what do you want for breakfast?

Tristan’s Mom: What are these? Tristan: Your granddaughters. Tristan’s Dad: Don’t worry honey, you don’t look old enough to be a mother let alone a grandmother. Tristan’s Mom: Again with the flattery, thank you dear. Where did they come from? Tristan: Camie gave birth last night. Jeff: I didn’t know she was pregnant. Tristan: She wasn’t. It was a miracle. Tristan’s Mom: Do they have names? Tristan: Phineas and Ferb. Jeff: From the cartoon? Tristan’s Dad: That figures, he named the dog Scooby. Tristan’s Mom: They sound like boy names. Tristan: Mom! Shhh, you’ll give them a complex. Jeff: If that Ferb one climbs my legs again I’m drop kicking it. Tristan: That’s child abuse and I’ll press charges. Besides, they just miss their mom. Jeff: I’m calling CPS (cat protective services)… Tristan: What for? Jeff: Because you’re making your kids live in a broken home unnecessarily. Tristan: I’m not talking to you anymore. Jeff: Fine, as long as you to talk to her. Tristan: Back off. Jeff: Nope, not gonna do it. Tristan: I’m warning you man. Jeff: You miss her too. Tristan: Yeah, so? Jeff: So do something about it. Tristan: Happy? Last night was miserable and I think it’s too late. Jeff: You still have a 12 year old ace in the hole. Tristan: Saving it as a last resort. Tristan’s Dad: Honey, do you have a clue as to what they’re talking about? Tristan’s Mom: No and I don’t want one. Jeff: I’m just helping my nieces get their parents back together. Dude, it’s time. Make the call. Tristan: Alright, I did it. But I get the feeling I’m about to do business with the mob. I hope I don’t wake up with the head of my horse in bed with me tonight. Jeff: Well, a good father will do anything he can to protect his family, even if that means he runs the risk of sleeping with the fishes. Tristan: Okay girls, your aunt helped Daddy come up with a plan and if it works you should get to see Mommy today. Cross your paws, or claws, or whatever…just cross something for luck.

God: you’re man’s best friend. Dog: ok. God: and women’s best friend. Dog: yay. God: and children’s best friend. Dog: aww. God: and...and my best friend? Dog: [puts paw on God’s knee] always. God: I’m gonna miss you. Dog: I’ll be back when they don’t need me anymore.

Fear-Dog told me . . . we must return to our camp,” he growled, his voice throaty with drool. “Now?” whimpered the little brown dog. “Now. Immediately.” Terror swiped a trembling paw at her face, though this time he missed. “He says . . . we are to kill any strange dogs. Kill them all. Kill them on sight. Now go!

He moved forward cautiously. He circled it, sniffed it, whapped it with a paw. Then he found the product tag and stared at it for a minute. Turning toward her, he lifted a lip in something that might have been a sneer. "I know it says it's a dog bed, but I'm sure a Wolf can use it," Meg said. Nothing but grumbly sounds from the Wolf. "Fine. If you want to lie on a cold, hard floor instead of something comfy and warm just because Wolf is spelled d-o-g, you go right ahead.

Toby placed his front paws on the track, looked up at Ian, and whined. "What in hell are you wearing, big man?" he asked, staring down at the dog. "It's his sweater." "That's a terrible thing to do to a noble beast," Ian muttered, grabbing the sweater by the hem and pulling it up over Toby's head. -Ian and Jessie

What,” Mick said softly, “is Lad doin’ in me bed?” Hearing his name, Lad opened small, piggish, upside-down eyes, gazing with idiotic adoration as his whip-thin tail thumped the covers. “Ah.” Harry scratched behind one ear. “Well, see, ’e was lookin’ so forlorn, like, out in the courtyard by ’imself. Seemed an awful shame to leave ’im there all alone.” “Off!” Mick roared at the dog. Lad’s transformation was instantaneous. His tiny triangle ears folded back, his eyes narrowed worriedly, and he rolled so that he could crawl toward the edge of the bed on his belly. “Is that mud on his paws?” Mick asked in outrage. Harry glanced at the dog. “I do believe it is,” he said as if making a discovery. “Christ!” Mick watched disgustedly as Lad made the edge of the bed and slithered off, thumping to the floor. The dog seemed to think that his apology was done—or perhaps he’d already forgotten that Mick was mad at him—for he gamboled over as frisky as a lamb. “He’s not even me dog,” Mick muttered. Lad sat, one back leg sprawled out to the side, tongue hanging from his mouth, and grinned up at him. He completely ignored Harry, his supposed master. “The dog ’as a wonderful affection for ye,” Harry said brightly.

Like a bullet out of a gun. His big paws had caught the dog before the dog could even flinch.

If only it was an island rather than a pretty sleeping dog with sand on its paws and cliffs on its shoulders, waiting to wake it up and tear it.

In Moonlight No Soft sweet paw on my cheek No Fur curled under my chin Just A sad space left behind - Gray cat gone away. [Ellie's poem]

but the dog’s paw was a wonder: the smell of it never suggested dirt. It’s a cathedral!

Poetry Is a Destructive Force" That's what misery is, Nothing to have at heart. It is to have or nothing. It is a thing to have, A lion, an ox in his breast, To feel it breathing there. Corazon, stout dog, Young ox, bow-legged bear, He tastes its blood, not spit. He is like a man In the body of a violent beast. Its muscles are his own . . . The lion sleeps in the sun. Its nose is on its paws. It can kill a man.

My darling, what a cat they have! Something perfectly stupendous. Siamese, in colour dark beige, or taupe, with chocolate paws and the tail the same. Moreover, his tail is comparatively short, so his croup has something of a little dog, or rather, a kangaroo, and that’s its colour, too. And that special silkiness of short fur, and some very tender white tints on its folds, and wonderful clear-blue eyes, turning transparently green towards evening, and a pensive tenderness of its walk, a sort of heavenly circumspection of movement. An amazing, sacred animal, and so quiet – it’s unclear what he is looking at with those eyes filled to the brim with sapphire water.

Humans measure things. Dogs just move. Joy isn’t stored in a trophy. It bursts midair when the paws leave the ground. There is no shame in bounding toward nothing. There is no failure in missing the ball. The game is the game because it moves.

Whenever her father was alone with a dog in a house he would lean over and smell the skin at the base of its paw. This, he would say, as if coming away from a brandy snifter, is the greatest smell in the world! A bouquet! Great rumours of travel!

For a moment, I was perfectly relaxed, and I began enjoying the sight of this beautifully candlelit room full of well-dressed people. Then Mr. Merchant made a grab for my décolletage from behind, and I almost spilled the punch. “One of those dear, pretty little roses slipped out of place,” he claimed, with an insinuating grin. I stared at him, baffled. Giordano hadn’t prepared me for a situation like this, so I didn’t know the proper etiquette for dealing with Rococo gropers. I looked at Gideon for help, but he was so deep in conversation with the young widow that he didn’t even notice. If we’d been in my own century, I’d have told Mr. Merchant to keep his dirty paws to himself or I’d hit back, whether or not any little roses had really slipped. But in the circumstances, I felt that his reaction was rather—discourteous. So I smiled at him and said, “Oh, thank you, how kind. I never noticed.” Mr. Merchant bowed. “Always glad to be of service, ma’am.” The barefaced cheek of it! But in times when woman had no vote, I suppose it wasn’t surprising if they didn’t get any other kind of respect either. The talking and laughter gradually died away as Miss Fairfax, a thin-nosed lady wearing a reed-green dress, went over to the pianoforte, arranged her skirts, and placed her hands on the keys. In fact, she didn’t play badly. It was her singing that was rather disturbing. It was incredibly . . . well, high-pitched. A tiny bit higher, and you’d have thought she was a dog whistle.

I glance at the small crowd of people surrounding me. Maybe we are like dogs. Everyone here is waiting for their drinks like trained animals. I look down at my hands, and then at the hands of the people around me. These are our paws. We are creatures.

Thierry, you must learn not only when to lift a burden, but when to set it down.” He patted Shaw’s lax face with his paw. “Otherwise, your back will break under the strain, and everyone who depends on you will be left as sheep without their shepherd. Do you understand?

Then he had beaten her with a hockey stick because he had objected to her nailing the paw of a beige cocker spaniel to the floor because the dog was stubborn and refused to understand the most elemental instructions to remain still when she had called out the command to do so.

NOT long ago, there lived in London a young married couple of Dalmatian dogs named Pongo and Missis Pongo. (Missis had added Pongo’s name to her own on their marriage, but was still called Missis by most people.) They were lucky enough to own a young married couple of humans named Mr. and Mrs. Dearly, who were gentle, obedient, and unusually intelligent—almost canine at times. They understood quite a number of barks: the barks for “Out, please!” “In, please!” “Hurry up with my dinner!” and “What about a walk?” And even when they could not understand, they could often guess—if looked at soulfully or scratched by an eager paw. Like many other much-loved humans, they believed that they owned their dogs, instead of realizing that their dogs owned them. Pongo and Missis found this touching and amusing and let their pets think it was true.

She climbed into the carriage and sat down across from the other lady. Pip hopped inside. Miss Royle smiled down at the terrier. "Oh, what a sweet little dog!" Pip wagged his tail and placed his front paws on Miss Royle's skirts for a pat and Bridget began to suspect he was a flirt.

Her cat suit consisted of a very flattering black body stocking that revealed an enticingly curvaceous figure, complimented by cat ears and paws, and mascara whiskers. Up until now, I had always considered myself a dog person, but that was a preference I suddenly found myself questioning.

Cool.” Mai gathered her things and bolted out the door. “Last one to the car is a rotten egg.” Diode looked alarmed. “What?” “Relax.” I chuckled. “It’s just something people say.” He licked a front paw and smoothed the fur on his face. “People are, quite frankly, ridiculous.” “No argument here.

A day goes by. Every shiver of grass counts. The shallows and dapples in air that give grass life are like water. The bobcat returns nightly. During easy jags of sleep the dog’s dream-paws chase coyotes. I ride to the sheep. Empty sky, an absolute blue. Empty heart. Sunburned face blotches brown. Another layer of skin to peel, to meet myself again in the mirror. A plane passes overhead—probably the government trapper. I’m waving hello, but he speeds away.

Dogs can't speak either. They just love you.... That damn animal. Unmanageable and impossible, wild and crazy, never gives him a moment's peace, and there's nothing Sune is more grateful for than that. He was never really prepared for the love he would feel for his dog. That's what he says, my dog, even though the entire basis for what he feels when it looks at him is the exact opposite: that he belongs to it. That he is its human. It trusts him so much that it sometimes becomes too much for him, because he doesn't know if he can handle the responsibility. He doesn't know if he can cope with being so needed. So loved. No matter how many mornings he gets woken by those eager paws on the edge of the bed, that rough tongue on his face, he is still taken aback by its acceptance of him.

Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher —the old crowd. Lie low at Lupin's for a while, I will contact you there." "But —" said Harry. He wanted Sirius to stay. He did not want to say goodbye again so quickly, "You'll see me very soon, Harry," said Sirius, turning to him. "I promise you. But I must do what I can, you understand, don't you?" "Yeah," said Harry.. "Yeah... of course I do." Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, and ran the length of the room to the door, whose handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone.

One thing,” Father said. Susie the bear put her paw on my hand, as if even Susie knew what was coming. “Just one thing,” Father said. We were very quiet, waiting for this. “It mustn’t look like Sorrow,” Father said. “And you’ve got the eyes, so you’ve got to pick out the dog. Just make sure it in no way resembles Sorrow.” —

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.

Thank you for telling me. It doesn't take the pain away, but it makes all the difference now that I understand." Sensing her emotional distress, Max squeezed in between them, tail wagging, up on his hind legs, pawing at her shirt with his forelegs, trying to lick her tears away. Liam gave him a rub. "I wish I'd had a Max back then.

Among the foremost warriors was Hector, confident of his strength—as when a dog pursues a lion or wild boar—his paws are quick, he follows close behind, his teeth 340 snap at his quarry’s flank and rump—he watches his victim’s every twist and turn—so Hector stalked close behind the long-haired Greeks and slaughtered numerous stragglers as they tried to run.

when you were running with the bottom dogs, what you mostly saw were paws, claws, and assholes.

Clarity was looking down and seemed unhappy, so I put my paws on her chest and tried to lick her face. In my experience, being licked by a dog can cheer up just about anybody.

These dogs didn't bother to bond with us, but stuck out their paws, not to shake hands but so we could slit their wrists and get it the hell over with. (p.51)

Guy’s own erection was so hard it ached, as if it were an angry dog begging to be let out and pawing at the door.

With one paw, trying the edges of the winter pond, finding its waters solid, he advances, nails sliding, still far from home.

While our life remains more chaotic than not, we continue to land on our blistered feet, drag each other out of the quicksand, beg for forgiveness as we wander out of the doghouse, and dig for the humor beneath our grief. So our family, four-pawed members included, continues to bound forward celebrating our canine connection and sharing hope with all who need healing.

People with deformities are especially quick to connect with Bandit, Brownfield says, because of his. “One day we were in the hospital and a little girl was in a wheelchair, and Bandit came up and put his paw on her lap. She grabbed it and turned to her father, this big burly marine, and said, ‘See, Dad? I'll be OK. Bandit has a deformity and he's still a hero. Her dad just started sobbing.

Doris loves Superman as well.unfortunately, she got knocked down by a van last year, and it was a big, long recovery for her, really. It took about six months, didn't it, before she was fully back to normal. She never gone back to normal. She's got a bionic leg now, which made her twice as fast and twice as stupid. You know, but she's just such good fun. But anyway,like she had a bit of a low point, you know, when she got really fed up, you know, with those stupid lampshade collars, you know, that they have on their head. Ugh, bumping into everything, she was walking about sighing. Ugh, like that, you know, and if you've ever been known or been with the terriers, but that ball of energy,you know, and she wasn't allowed to be for a walk or anything. It was awful. So to cheer her up, I bought her a little Superman outfit for dogs. When you get home, you look online. They are absolutely brilliant. You can get Wonder Woman and Darth Vader, all sorts. They're the funniest thing I have ever seen in my. The front paws, the front legs go in Super man's legs, you know, and it like covers up the paw with these little, red boot things on the bottom. And it comes up and ties around the neck, and there's tube stuff down from the front. So from the front, it's like a tiny, little Superman with a dog's head. And then, on the back there's this cape. So when she trots around, it looks like she's flying! Ah, it's brilliant! And she loves it. I couldn't get it off for about a week. It's honestly, they're absolutely brilliant, you must check it out. So anyway, tonight this is for Doris.

They set out together in the moonlight. They had gone a good way along the hedge when they came upon an old box lying in the ditch. Sitting on top of the box was Yona the hedgehog. His prickles were stuck all over with dog-rose petals and he was making an extraordinary squeaking, grunting noise and waving his black paws. They stopped and looked at him. “Whatever are you doing, Yona?” asked Hufsa in astonishment. “Singing to the moon,” answered Yona. “All hedgehogs have to sing to the moon to make the slugs come, surely you know that? ‘O Slug-a-Moon, O Slug-a-Moon, O grant thy faithful hedgehog’s boon!

Poetry Is a Destructive Force" That's what misery is, Nothing to have at heart. It is to have or nothing. It is a thing to have, A lion, an ox in his breast, To feel it breathing there. Corazon, stout dog, Young ox, bow-legged bear, He tastes its blood, not spit. He is like a man In the body of a violent beast. Its muscles are his own . . . The lion sleeps in the sun. Its nose is on its paws. It can kill a man.

For a moment she felt terribly sad about Pink Rabbit. It had had embroidered black eyes – the original glass ones had fallen out years before – and an endearing habit of collapsing on its paws. Its fur, though no longer very pink, had been soft and familiar. How could she ever have chosen to pack that characterless woolly dog in its stead? It had been a terrible mistake, and now she would never be able to put it right.

Horns and hounds awake the princely train; and issue early through the city gate, There more wakeful huntsmen ready wait, with nets and darts beside swift horse, and spartan dogs. Come the Tyrian peers and officers of state for the slow queen in antechambers waits; Her lofty courser in the court below who his majestic rider seems to know, proud of his purple trappings he paws the ground and champs the golden bit to spread the foam around. Queen Dido at length appears; flowered simar with golden fringe adorned, and at her back a golden quiver bore; her flowing hair a golden caul restrains, a golden clasp the Tyrian robe sustains.

I have a heart!” “No, you don’t.” “Yes, I do,” he says. “Look, I’ll prove it to you.” He reaches into the tub and wraps his arms around Hector, suds and all. “Oooh,” he says in a baby voice. “Ooooh, Hector, you’re such a good boy, oooh, I love you, Hector.” Hector’s tail immediately starts wagging, and he pushes his snout into Jace’s face and starts licking it. “Oh, Hector, you’re so sweet,” Jace says. “You’re just the best dog.” Hector moves and Jace’s elbows slip, causing Jace’s whole upper body to slide over the side and into the tub. For a second, everyone freezes. I’m afraid Jace is going to be mad, since now he’s soaking wet, but instead he just says, “Oooh, Hector, that’s okay,” and then slides his whole body into the tub, clothes and all. Hector gives a happy bark, glad to have a friend with him, and then plants his front paws on Jace’s chest.

But at that moment all I could see was the wolf in the white van, so alive, so strong. Hidden from view, unnoticed, concealed. And I thought, maybe he's real, this wolf, and he's really out there in a white van somewhere, riding around. Maybe he's in the far back, pacing back and forth, circling, the pads of his huge paws raw and cracking, his thick, sharp claws dully clicking against the raised rusty steel track ridges on the floor. Maybe he's sound asleep, or maybe he's just pretending. And then the van stops somewhere, maybe, and somebody gets out and walks around the side to the back and grabs hold of the handle and flings the doors open wide. Maybe whoever's kept him wears a mechanic's jumpsuit and some sunglasses, and he hasn't fed the great wolf for weeks, cruising the streets of the city at night, and the wolf's crazy with hunger now; he can't even think. Maybe he's not locked up in the back at all: he could be riding in the passenger seat, like a dog, just sitting and staring out the open window, looking around, checking everybody out. Maybe he's over in the other seat behind the steering wheel. Maybe he's driving.

I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a cat try to decide where to sit, but it involves a lot of circling around, sitting, getting up again, circling some more, thinking about it, lying down, standing up, bathing a paw or tail and . . . circling! A dog, on the other hand, sits. “This looks like a good spot,” a dog will say to himself. He will then lower his body to the spot in question and is usually so secure in his decision that he will fall asleep immediately.

And the scrotum! To think that something so vital to the survival of the species, fully responsible for 50 percent of the ingredients - though none of the work - should hang freely from the body in a tiny, defenceless bag of skin. One whack, one bite, one paw scratch - and its just at the right level, too, for your average animal, a dog, a lion, a sabre-tooth tiger, and that's it, end of story. Don't you think it should get better protection? Behind some bone for example? The penis is just such a lousy design.

They told me the first mourner to come was the dog. He came uninvited, and stood up on his hind legs and rested his fore paws upon the trestle, and took a last long look at the face that was so dear to him, then went his way as silently as he had come. HE KNOWS.

In build and coat and brush he was a huge timber-wolf; but the lie was given to his wolf-hood by his color and marking. There the dog unmistakably advertised itself. No wolf was ever colored like him. He was brown, deep brown, red-brown, an orgy of browns. Back and shoulders were a warm brown that paled on the sides and underneath to a yellow that was dingy because of the brown that lingered in it. The white of the throat and paws and the spots over the eyes was dirty because of the persistent and ineradicable brown, while the eyes themselves were twin topazes, golden and brown.

She caught the crazy-eyed look in one about the size of a small horse, wondered vaguely why anyone would want a dog they could essentially ride around the house. When she made the mistake of meeting those crazy eyes for a split second, it danced its great gray bulk in place, then charged, dragging its squeaking owner out of her chair. In defense, Eve slapped a hand to her weapon, but the horse-dog covered the ground like a sprinter, heaved itself up, planted its enormous front paws on her shoulders. And lapped its wide, wet tongue from her chin to her hairline in one noisy slurp.

Brambleclaw drew his tail over his paws with a resigned sigh. “Well, there are lots of sheep, which are fluffy white woolly things that look a bit like clouds on legs. They’re harmless, but you’ll need to watch out for dogs when you see them, because the Twolegs use them to control the sheep.

Her father had taught her about hands. About a dog’s paws. Whenever her father was alone with a dog in a house he would lean over and smell the skin at the base of its paw. This, he would say, as if coming away from a brandy snifter, is the greatest smell in the world! A bouquet! Great rumours of travel! She would pretend disgust, but the dog’s paw was a wonder: the smell of it never suggested dirt. It’s a cathedral! her father had said, so-and-so’s garden, that field of grasses, a walk through cyclamen—a concentration of hints of all the paths the animal had taken during the day.

Her father had taught her about hands. About a dog’s paws. Whenever her father was alone with a dog in a house he would lean over and smell the skin at the base of its paw. This, he would say, as if coming away from a brandy snifter, is the greatest smell in the world! A bouquet! Great rumours of travel! She would pretend disgust, but the dog’s paw was a wonder: the smell of it never suggested dirt. It’s a cathedral! her father had said, so-and-so’s garden, that field of grasses, a walk through cyclamen – a concentration of hints of all the paths the animal had taken during the day.

...when you were down, some guys just seemed to feel an urge to walk up your back and plant a foot on your neck instead of helping you to stand. It was lousy, but so much of human nature was. Of course when you were running with the bottom dogs, what you mostly saw were paws, claws and assholes.

The lake comes to the fringe while lights go up around the bay. Somewhere near, cow flesh is singed. Smoke floats above the walkway. I’ve eaten green that comes up black, risen cold from torrid mud. I’ve licked my paws and tasted blood. What is this world of busy lies? Some urban genie feeding food to flies!

Don’t you just hate it when you step in dog poop? Especially if you’re walking with a friend, and as you smell it and the stench keeps pace with you, you begin to wonder if your friend shit his pants. Thankfully, what comes out of a duck’s anus looks more like coffee, and fills your nostrils like yesterday’s news.

Her mother had smelled of cold and scales, her father of stone dust and dog. She imagined her husband's mother, whom she had never met, had a whiff of rotting apples, though her stationary had stunk of baby powder and rose perfume. Sally was starch, cedar, her dead grandmother sandalwood, her uncle, swiss cheese. People told her she smelled like garlic, like chalk, like nothing at all. Lotto, clean as camphor at his neck and belly, like electrified pennies at the armpit, like chlorine at the groin. She swallowed. Such things, details noticed only on the edges of thought would not return. 'Land,' Mathilde said, 'odd name for a guy like you.' 'Short for Roland,' the boy said. Where the August sun had been steaming over the river, a green cloud was forming. It was still terrifically hot, but the birds had stopped singing. A feral cat scooted up the road on swift paws. It would rain soon. 'Alright Roland,' Mathilde said, suppressing as sigh, 'sing your song.

Adam wet his dry lips and tried to ask and failed and tried again. "Why do they have to do it?" he said. "Why is it?" Cyrus was deeply moved and he spoke as he had never spoken before. "I don't know," he said. "I've studied and maybe learned how things are, but I"m not even close to why they are. And you must not expect to find that people understand what they do. So many things are done instinctively, the way a bee makes honey or a fox dips his paws into a stream to fool dogs. A fox can't say why he does it, and what bee remembers winter or expects it to come again? When I knew you had to go I thought to leave the future open so you could dig out your own findings, and then it seemed better if I could protect you with the little I know. You'll go in soon now--you've come to the age." "I don't want to," said Adam quickly. "You'll go in soon," his father went on, not hearing. "And I want to tell you so you won't be surprised. They'll first strip off your clothes, but they'll go deeper than that. They'll shuck off any little dignity you have--you'll lose what you think of as your decent right to live and be let alone to live. They'll make you live and eat and sleep and shit close to other men. And when they dress you up again you'll not be able to tell yourself from the others. You can't even wear a scrap or pin a note on your breast to say, 'This is me--separate from the rest.'" "I don't want to do it," said Adam. "After a while," said Cyrus, "you'll think no thought the others do not think. You'll know no word the others can't say. And you'll do things because the others do them. You'll feel the danger in any difference whatever-- a danger to the whole crowd of like-thinking, like-acting men." "What if I don't?" Adam demanded. "Yes," said Cyrus, "sometimes that happens. Once in a while there is a man who won't do what is demanded of him, and do you know what happens? The whole machine devotes itself coldly to the destruction of his difference. They'll beat your spirit and your nerves, your body and your mind, with iron rods until the dangerous difference goes out of you. And if you can't finally give in, they'll vomit you up and leave you stinking outside--neither part of themselves nor yet free. It's better to fall in with them. They only do it to protect themselves [...]

Let Each level have its language! Heaven speaks first To the angel, then the angel tames the word Down to the ear of Tobit: he, in turn, Diminishes the message to his dog, And finally that dog finds how the flea (Which else, importunate, might check his speed) Shall learn its hunger must have holiday By application of his tongue or paw

Most people picture my dog with three heads, but that is wrong, wrong, wrong. He is way cooler than that. Some poets claimed he had fifty heads and some poets called him the "hundred-headed" beast. Others described him with not only multiple heads, but with a serpent's tail, a mane of snakes, and lion's paws. Whatever. I call him awesome.

It was a case of two dogs playing on a hearth-rug; one worrying a paper screw, snarling, snapping, giving a pinch, now and then, at the old dog's ear; the other lying somnolent, blinking at the fire, raising a paw, turning and growling good-temperedly. They had to be together, share with each other, fight with each other, quarrel with each other.

Sometimes, in prison, when he’d been lying awake at night staring at the bunk over his head, Johnny had thought that he missed Wolf most of all. Wasn’t that a damned sad commentary on his life? The dog whined again. Knowing he was being ridiculous, that he was liable to lose the hand at the wrist when the animal charged, Johnny nonetheless took a step forward,holding out his fingers for sniffing. “Wolf? Come here, boy.” Incredibly, the huge animal sank to its belly and slunk forward, behaving as if it wanted to believe but feared a cruel trick. Johnny dropped to his knees to greet it, his hands reaching out, burrowing in the coarse hide, stroking and scratching as the dog whined and licked and pawed him and butted him with its head. “Ah, Wolf,” he said as he accepted the truth at last, that this one thing that he had loved had been spared in order to greet him. Then, as the big head snuggled into his lap, he wrapped his arms around the dog’s thick neck and buried his face against the animal’s side. For the first time in eleven years, he wept.

But also, the cynic may have to accept something else. That he, as a human, is not exceptional. He might have to accept that perhaps, when you look at how animals, certainly mammals, behave – how they have sex with their genitals, and shit from their anuses, and eat with their mouths – and how they appear, with their noses and ears and eyes and feet and hands/paws – that we are just one branch of multiple DNA outcomes. And accepting that – properly, viscerally accepting it – may not just throw a spanner in the works of complacently eating hot dogs. It also must mean that there is no God. Not least because clearly, coming back to the fact of that ongoing genocide, God does not care about the animals.

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.

When they are away, you will often look for the baby doll, but it is not always there, where it is supposed to be, where you left it. Sometimes The Baby moves it, or she takes it with her, and you have to settle for some other toy. You bring it into the living room and set it between your paws as you sleep. It helps you believe that one day you might be a real mother.

Champs-de-Mars, the day of celebration: a crowd of people in Sunday clothes. Women with parasols, pet dogs on leads. Stickyfingered children pawing at their mothers; people who have bought coconuts and don’t know what to make of them. Then the glint of light on bayonets, people clutching hands, whirling children off their feet, pushing and calling out in alarm as they are separated from their families. Some mistake, there must be some mistake. The red flag of martial law is unfurled. What’s a flag, on a day of celebration? Then the horrors of the first volley. And back, losing footing, blood blossoming horribly on the grass, fingers under stampeding feet, the splinter of hoof on bone. It is over within minutes. An example has been made. A soldier slides from his saddle and vomits.

The answer to how is unsatisfying. The truth is … we live. We can’t spend every moment treasuring the things we love. We still get mad at the dog for tracking mud through the house even though one day, we would give anything to have her muddy paws back on our white carpet. We still roll our eyes at our parents’ needy voicemails even though one day, those recorded moments will be all we have left.

The bold, black masked pup goes to a surgeon in Santa Barara with two young daughters. The surgeon’s wife, Jill, takes one look at the pup’s confident gait and names him “Brag.” He’s a handsome fellow with over-sized paws and a serious disposition. The official name for his coloring is sable, which means he has as much black on him as he does brown. Brag grows deeply attached to his new family, never straying far from the little girls and always with one eye on Jill, whom he adores. Before Brag is a year old, Jill’s husband – an amateur pilot – hops in his plain and flies to Bakersfield for business. On his way home later that night, with two friends seated behind him, he miscalculates his position and flies into a mountain north of Santa Barbara. The plan disintegrates on impact. No one survives

Natasha started to take notice. My sleepiness was good for rudeness to visitors to the gallery, but not for signing for packages or noticing if someone had come in with a dog and tracked paw prints all over the floor, which happened a few times. There were a few spilled lattes. MFA students touching paintings, once even rearranging an installation of shattered CD jewel cases in a Jarrod Harvey installation to spell out the word “HACK.” When I noticed it, I just shuffled the shards of plastic around, no one the wiser. But when a homeless woman set herself up in the back room one afternoon, Natasha found out. I’d had no idea how long the woman had been there. Maybe people thought she was part of the artwork. I ended up paying her fifty bucks out of petty cash to leave. Natasha couldn’t hide her irritation.

By human standards, I know far more than the dogs do. But Luke and June can do what I cannot. In a millisecond, forty feet from just encountered range Rambouillets the dogs see, big as a Wall Drug bill board, which sheep is the leader. They immediately understand the complex social order in this particular miniflock. they know whether the sheep are ready to fight, split up, or break for the tall timber, because the sheep tell them what they mean to do. For the sake of that instant, for that millisecond, that's why the Mister and Missus have put so many miles beneath their paws. Luke and June have developed an all-sheep, all-breed, all-terrain method that doesn't give them an edge over dogs who've been working these sheep on this terrain all their lives, but does help them transmute the novel into the manageable

I looked up at the painting that hung above my bed as usual, a little girl holding a dog with a bandaged paw. Who would paint such a thing, I wondered. First he painted the little girl and nobody cared, so he added a dog. Still nobody cared, so he added a bandage on the dog’s paw, and now it’s hanging in the Far East Suite watching me try to sleep. How long has that dog been hurt? How long has the girl been watching?

Her left hand dangled from the armrest, her long fingers and beautiful clear nails. She always had lovely, elegant hands; my own mother’s fat-fingered scrubwoman hands looked like dog’s paws beside Laurie’s. I reached across to take her hand, lacing my fingers in hers so that our two hands made one fist. The sight of her hand in mine made me briefly sentimental. I gave her an encouraging look and jostled our knotted hands.

Incrimination and heady elation, cutting capers in the misty vapours, havoc and ravage hurrah for the savage life precarious, life so various, life nefarious and temerarious, pulling faces, fierce grimaces, leaving traces in rocky places, pieces and faeces all over the fleece is that a yow's shoulder they've left there to moulder stuck up on a boulder? Much to learn, Rowf, in the fern, of great concern, for this is the point of no return. Those who kill sheep should mind where they sleep, when there's nothing to hear the shot-gun is near, the curse of the farmer is likely to harm yer, a scent in the morning is sent for a warning, at a cloud on the sun a wise dog will run, it's the sharp and alert who avoid being hurt and a dog that's gone feral is living in peril. Those with blood on their paws and wool in their jaws should heed these old saws.

HUGE BELL in the tower of the Council Edifice began to ring. The bell governed the people’s lives. It told them when to begin work and when to stop, when to gather for meetings, when to prepare for a hunt, celebrate an event, or arm for danger. Four bells—the third was resonating now—meant that the day’s business could end. For Kira, it meant the time to report to the Council of Guardians. She hurried toward the central plaza through the crowds of people leaving their workplaces. Matt was waiting on the steps as he had promised. Branch, beside him, was pawing excitedly at a large iridescent beetle, blocking its path again and again with a paw as the beetle tried unsuccessfully to waddle by. The dog looked up and wagged its crooked tail when Kira called a greeting. “What you got?” Matt asked, looking at the small bundle Kira carried on her back.

Yeah, ignore me." Aaro pawed through the bags until he found one with stenciled hearts on it. "By the way, you never did tell me your size. Hope nothing binds or pinches your tender pink places, babe." He let the bag fly. It landed on Lily's lap. She shrank back as if it were a venomous snake. Fuck-me-please panties spilled out. A tangle of satin, lace and silk. Red, black, peach, flesh-tone. Bruno growled expletives in a Calabrese dialect as he shoved underwear into the bag. It was his standard tension reliever. None of the people he insulted knew he was commenting on their grandmother's predilection for sex with sheep. "I am not wearing that slutty, disgusting stuff." Lily's voice was haughty. "Certainly not after you're pawed it. Dog." "Arf, arf." Aaro's tone was more cheerful than it had been so far any time this morning. "I love it when she spits bile.

While genetics play a significant role, so too, does experience, for running (and especially running long distances) has a high metabolic cost. The dogs’ muscles must be strong, but most of all, they must be efficient. The ability to run fast and consistently for long periods of time depends on the body’s ability to provide adequate energy to working muscles and to efficiently remove waste products such as carbon dioxide and lactic acid. In both humans and dogs, only about a quarter of the energy from the breakdown of fats and carbohydrates in food is converted into mechanical energy; the rest is dissipated as heat. The primary focus of training for a race—for both humans and canines—is teaching the body to get better at converting available energy from glucose, carbohydrates, fats, and proteins into energy. This can only really be achieved through regular exercise

Tails from My Puppyhood or, What They Don’t Teach You at Obedience School The tail that wags the dog to bliss Must put his mouth before his heart. The simple rule of paw is this: Show your master he’s smart. The dog intent on happiness Knows it pays to learn the tricks Of when to sit and when to piss And how to accept his master’s kiss. I know the human breath is foul, But you must let him pet your head. The dog that turns away its jowls Will keep his pride but won’t be fed. When he throws you food upon the floor, Swallow it with a smile. Smack your lips and beg for more: Show the bum your style. When you fetch your master’s stick Drop it gently to his feet. If you whine, pretend you’re sick; He’ll then fetch you more to eat. I know it’s tough to be a hound And forsake all that you hold dear. But remember, when he’s not around You can always piss right on his chair.

The trouble with dogs (supposing you don't beat or kick them, of course) is they trust you. you're the food-giver and shelter-provider. You're the one that can fish the squeaky monkey out from beneath the couch with one of your clever five-fingered paws. You are also the love-giver. The problem with that kind of unquestioning trust is that it carries a weight of responsibility. Mostly that's okay. In our current situation it was anything but.

Coco?” I whispered, standing still, hardly able to believe it. “Oh—Coco?” “It is impossible to imagine,” a voice behind seemed to be saying from a great distance away, “how the dog could have reached this spot. For three days he has been immovable in his kennel.” I dropped on my knees, and took his paw in my hand. He gave the faintest wag of his tail, and tried to raise his head; but it fell back again, and he could only look at me. For an instant, for the briefest instant, we looked at each other, and while we looked his eyes glazed. “Coco—I’ve come back. Darling—I’ll never leave you any more——” I don’t know why I said these things. I knew he was dead, and that no calls, no lamentations, no love could ever reach him again. Sliding down on to the stone flags beside him, I laid my head on his and wept in an agony of bitter grief. Now indeed I was left alone in the world. Even my dog was gone.

From the way that doctor talked anyone would think he was violent,’ she continued, ‘your papa, the gentlest of creatures, who has always hated cruelty in any form. I shall never forget his anger once, long ago, when he saw a man ill-treating a dog. I can see him now, after he had beaten the fellow and sent him away, taking the dog in his arms and holding it. He took it back and bandaged the poor broken paw, and the tears were running down his cheeks,

Needless to say he had a newfound respect for that blind vampire. There were very few things iAm hadn’t been able to move in his adult life. He’d changed a tire while acting as his own tire iron. Had been known to walk vats of sauce big as washing machines around a kitchen. Hell, he’d even actually relocated a washer and dryer without thinking much about it. And then he’d had to lift that truck off his brother about two years ago. Another example of Trez’s love life getting out of control. But down in the training center with Wrath? There’d been no budging that fucker. The King had been bulldog-locked on—and the expression on his face? No emotion, not even a grimace of effort. And that body—viciously strong. iAm shook his head as he crossed that apple tree in full bloom. Trying to budge Wrath had been like pulling on a boulder. Nothing moved; nothing gave. That canine had gotten through, though. Thank God. Now, ordinarily, iAm didn’t like animals in the house—and he definitely wasn’t a dog person. They were too big, too dependent, the shedding—too much. But he respected that golden whatever it was now— Meeeeeeeeeeeerowwwwwwwwwwwwww. “Fuck!” Speak of the devil. As the queen’s black cat wound its way around his feet, he was forced to Michael Jackson it over the damn thing so he didn’t step on it. “Damn it, cat!” The feline followed him all the way into the kitchen, always with the in-and-out around the ankles—almost like it knew he’d been thinking benes about the dog and was establishing dominance. Except cats couldn’t read minds, of course. He stopped and glared at the thing. “What the hell do you want.” Not really a question, as he didn’t care to give the feline an opening. One black paw lifted and then . . . Next thing he knew, the g*dd*mn cat was leaping into his arms, rolling over onto its back . . . and purring like a Ferrari. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he muttered. -iAm & Boo

Thus Arabel at once “began to comfort me by showing how certain it was that I should recover him for ten pounds at most.” Ten pounds, it was reckoned, was about the price that Mr. Taylor would ask for a cocker spaniel. Mr. Taylor was the head of the gang. As soon as a lady in Wimpole Street lost her dog she went to Mr. Taylor; he named his price, and it was paid; or if not, a brown paper parcel was delivered in Wimpole Street a few days later containing the head and paws of the dog.

He spent the morning at the beach. He had no idea which one, just some open stretch of coastline reaching out to the sea. An unbroken mantle of soft grey clouds was sitting low over the water. Only on the horizon was there a glimmer of light, a faint blue band of promise. The beach was deserted, not another soul on the vast, wide expanse of sand that stretched out in front of him. Having come from the city, it never ceased to amaze Jejeune that you could be that alone in the world. He walked along the beach, feeling the satisfying softness as the sand gave way beneath his slow deliberate strides. He ventured as close to the tide line as he dared, the white noise of the waves breaking on the shingles. A set of paw prints ran along the sand, with an unbroken line in between. A small dog, dragging a stick in its mouth. Always the detective, even if, these days, he wasn’t a very good one. Jejeune’s path became blocked by a narrow tidal creek carrying its silty cargo out to the sea. On each side of it were shallow lagoons and rock pools. When the tide washed in they would teem with new life, but at the moment they looked barren and empty. Jejeune looked inland, back to where the dark smudge of Corsican pines marked the edge of the coast road. He traced the creek’s sinuous course back to where it emerged from a tidal salt flat, and watched the water for a long time as it eddied and churned, meeting the incoming tide in an erotic swirl of water, the fresh intermingling with the salty in a turbulent, roiling dance, until it was no longer possible to tell one from the other. He looked out at the sea, at the motion, the color, the light. A Black-headed Gull swooped in and settled on a piece of driftwood a few feet away. Picture complete, thought Jejeune. For him, a landscape by itself, no matter how beautiful, seemed an empty thing. It needed a flicker of life, a tiny quiver of existence, to validate it, to confirm that other living things found a home here, too. Side by side, they looked out over the sea, the man and the bird, two beating hearts in this otherwise empty landscape, with no connection beyond their desire to be here, at this time. Was it the birds that attracted him to places like this, he wondered, or the solitude, the absence of demands, of expectations? But if Jejeune was unsure of his own motives, he knew this bird would have a purpose in being here. Nature always had her reasons. He chanced a sidelong glance at the bird, now settled to his presence. It had already completed its summer molt, crisp clean feathers having replaced the ones abraded by the harsh demands of eking out a living on this wild, windswept coastline. The gull stayed for a long moment, allowing Jejeune to rest his eyes softly, unthreateningly, upon it. And then, as if deciding it had allowed him enough time to appreciate its beauty, the bird spread its wings and effortlessly lifted off, wheeling on the invisible air currents, drifting away over the sea toward the horizon. p. 282-3

But it was only a dog." Of course no one actually says that, but it feels to Sune as if all his neighbors are thinking it. Everyday life just carries on out in the street while he sits in a million pieces in his kitchen. When he collects the mail someone goes past and says "sorry for your loss," but that isn't what he wants them to feel sorry about. He wants them to feel sorry about his life, and the fact that he's going to have to see it out now without that ill-disciplined, unruly little monster. Without paws on the edge of the bed and bite marks on his wrists. How's that going to work? Who's going to eat all the liver pate in the fridge? He receives a few text messages and phone calls from the committee of the hockey club and a couple of coaches of the youth teams, all very sorry, but not as if it had been a person. They're sad that Sune is sad, of course, but they don't really understand his loss. Because of course it was only a dog. It's so hard to explain that it's more than an animal when you're that animal's human. Perhaps it takes more empathy than most people are capable of. Or more imagination.

Those hounds are huge. What are they? Where do they come from?’ A bundle of puppies came running behind the main pack, all wagging tails and big paws. ‘Those are moonhounds.’ The boy rushed to the window and gazed down at them. ‘They’re magnificent, aren't they? They decide for themselves who they want to bond with. One day I hope one chooses me. But I'm too young, and they haven’t chosen a male since forever.’ He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘They choose? How does a dog choose?’ asked Darin. ‘Oh, that's easy .. They dream of you and you dream of them.

Did you know that the Russians sent dogs into space? My mother told me this when I was a boy. Nobody knew the effects of space on a body, you see, so they sent dogs first. They found two little mongrels on the streets of Moscow. Pchelka, which means Little Bee, and Mushka, which means Little Fly. They went up in Sputnik 6. They were supposed to get into orbit and come right back. But the rockets misfired and shot them into space. Whenever I look at the night sky, I think about those dogs. Wearing these hand-stitched spacesuits, bright orange, with their paws sticking out. Big fishbowl helmets. How… crazy. Floating out and out into space. How bewildered they must have been, dying from oxygen deprivation. For what? They would have happily spent their days rummaging through trashcans. For all anyone knows these dogs are still out there. Two dead mongrels in a satellite. Two dog skeletons in silly spacesuits. Gleaming dog skulls inside fishbowl helmets. They’ll spin through the universe until they burn up in the atmosphere of an uncharted planet. Or get sucked into a black hole to be crushed into a ball of black matter no bigger than an ant turd.

A shell splinter cut Rags’s left forepaw. Another caromed off his gas mask, mangling his right ear. A needle-like sliver was imbedded under his right eye. The terrier was dazed for a minute, Then he struggled to his feet. Donovan lay where he had fallen. His gas mask had been shot away; arms and legs were cat by shrapnel. Blood from a gash in his forehead was blinding him. Over all hung the burning tang of gas—thinned somewhat by a northwest breeze, but still strong enough to sear the throats of sergeant and terrier. Between wheezes and coughs Rags pawed the now useless mask from his head. He licked first the sergeant’s outflung hand, then his face. Donovan roused himself. He lengthened the wire that tied the message to the dog’s collar, so Rags could carry the paper in his mouth. It would be lost if the little terrier succumbed before delivering it. The Sergeant started the dog toward the guns. As near-by bursts intensified the gas, Donovan staggered to his feet and urged the dog to a run. The terrier, favoring his wounded paw as much as he could, moved at a limping trot. Donovan, stumbling along behind, saw the concussion of a nearby shell-blast turn the little terrier on his back.

I'll read it off, straight out of the book. Come, Almanack! To begin: there's Aries, or the Ram— lecherous dog, he begets us; then, Taurus, or the Bull— he bumps us the first thing; then Gemini, or the Twins— that is, Virtue and Vice; we try to reach Virtue, when lo! comes Cancer the Crab, and drags us back; and here, going from Virtue, Leo, a roaring Lion, lies in the path— he gives a few fierce bites and surly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail Virgo, the Virgin! that's our first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes Libra, or the Scales—happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we are very sad about that, Lord! how we suddenly jump, as Scorpio, or the Scorpion, stings us in the rear; we are curing the wound, when whang comes the arrows all round; Sagittarius, or the Archer, is amusing himself. As we pluck out the shafts, stand aside! here's the battering-ram, Capricornus, or the Goat; full tilt, he comes rushing, and headlong we are tossed; when Aquarius, or the Waterbearer, pours out his whole deluge and drowns us; and to wind up with Pisces, or the Fishes, we sleep. There's a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the sun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and hearty. Jollily

LITTLE LOST PUP He was lost! — Not a shade of doubt of that; For he never barked at a slinking cat. But stood in the square where the wind blew raw, With a drooping ear, and a trembling paw, And a mournful look in his pleading eye. And a plaintive sniff at the passer-by That begged as plain as a tongue could sue, " Oh, Mister, please may I follow you?" A lorn, wee waif of a tawny brown Adrift in the roar of a heedless town. Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked inl Well, he won my heart (for I set great store On my own red Bute, who is here no more) So I whistled clear, and he trotted up. And who so glad as that small lost pup? Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed, And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread. Then if things go wrong, as they sometimes do. And the world is cold, and I'm feeling blue. He asserts his right to assuage my woes With a warm, red tongue and a nice, cold nose, And a silky head on my arm or knee, And a paw as soft as a paw can be. When we rove the woods for a league about He's as full of pranks as a school let out; For he romps and frisks like a three-months colt. And he runs me down like a thunder-bolt. Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair Is a gay little pup with his tail in air! - Anonymous

One morning, when she was in bed with Harry in his hotel room, he tapped Faith lightly on the nose and said, “You’ve got a big honker, don’t you. But you’re so sexy, you can carry it.” She said nothing. It h rut her, not because it was untrue—she did have a strong nose, and it did look pretty good on her. It hurt her because she had been lying relaxed with him, similar to the way her childhood dog Lucky would sometimes lie in deep sleep on her back, paws up and dipped at the wrist. Her dog, lying like that, was happy in her dogfish openness. Which, Faith thought, was all she herself really wanted when she went to bed with someone. To lie exposed and free and unself-conscious.

Even in the best of times, when we’re not stressed or needy, many of us enjoy petting our dogs as much as any other aspect of dog ownership. This is not a trivial need. Quiet stroking can significantly change your body’s physiology, lowering your heart rate and blood pressure. It releases endogenous opiates, or internal chemicals that calm and soothe us and play a significant role in good health. Lucky for us, most of our dogs adore being touched. Most normal, well-socialized dogs cherish getting belly rubs and head massages and butt scratches. Many dogs like grooming so much that they’re willing to work for it, pawing or barking whenever needed to remind their human not to stop.

Dog Talk … I have seen Ben place his nose meticulously into the shallow dampness of a deer’s hoofprint and shut his eyes as if listening. But it is smell he is listening to. The wild, high music of smell, that we know so little about. Tonight Ben charges up the yard; Bear follows. They run into the field and are gone. A soft wind, like a belt of silk, wraps the house. I follow them to the end of the field where I hear the long-eared owl, at wood’s edge, in one of the tall pines. All night the owl will sit there inventing his catty racket, except when he opens pale wings and drifts moth-like over the grass. I have seen both dogs look up as the bird floats by, and I suppose the field mouse hears it too, in the pebble of his tiny heart. Though I hear nothing. Bear is small and white with a curly tail. He was meant to be idle and pretty but learned instead to love the world, and to romp roughly with the big dogs. The brotherliness of the two, Ben and Bear, increases with each year. They have their separate habits, their own favorite sleeping places, for example, yet each worries without letup if the other is missing. They both bark rapturously and in support of each other. They both sneeze to express plea- sure, and yawn in humorous admittance of embarrassment. In the car, when we are getting close to home and the smell of the ocean begins to surround them, they both sit bolt upright and hum. With what vigor and intention to please himself the little white dog flings himself into every puddle on the muddy road. Somethings are unchangeably wild, others are stolid tame. The tiger is wild, the coyote, and the owl. I am tame, you are tame. The wild things that have been altered, but only into a semblance of tameness, it is no real change. But the dog lives in both worlds. Ben is devoted, he hates the door between us, is afraid of separation. But he had, for a number of years, a dog friend to whom he was also loyal. Every day they and a few others gathered into a noisy gang, and some of their games were bloody. Dog is docile, and then forgets. Dog promises then forgets. Voices call him. Wolf faces appear in dreams. He finds himself running over incredible lush or barren stretches of land, nothing any of us has ever seen. Deep in the dream, his paws twitch, his lip lifts. The dreaming dog leaps through the underbrush, enters the earth through a narrow tunnel, and is home. The dog wakes and the disturbance in his eyes when you say his name is a recognizable cloud. How glad he is to see you, and he sneezes a little to tell you so. But ah! the falling-back, fading dream where he was almost there again, in the pure, rocky weather-ruled beginning. Where he was almost wild again, and knew nothing else but that life, no other possibility. A world of trees and dogs and the white moon, the nest, the breast, the heart-warming milk! The thick-mantled ferocity at the end of the tunnel, known as father, a warrior he himself would grow to be. …

She picked up one of the dog’s legs and examined the soft paws. She squished the padded foot beneath her thumb. “Fleetfoot.” It was a perfect name. In fact, it felt as if the name had existed all along, and she’d finally been clairvoyant enough to stumble across it. “Yes, Fleet-foot it is.” “Does it mean anything?” he asked, and the dog raised her head to look at him. “It’ll mean something when she outruns all of your purebreds.” Celaena scooped the dog into her arms and kissed her head. She bounced her arms up and down, and Fleetfoot stared up into her eyes with a wrinkled brow. She was absurdly soft and cuddly. Dorian chuckled. “We’ll see.” Celaena set the dog down on the bed. Fleetfoot promptly crawled under the blankets and disappeared.

With my gaze on anything but Cade, I moved around the room but when Scout spotted me he trotted over. I knelt down and rubbed his ears. The silky fur between my fingers stirred memories. Scout’s tongue flicked under my chin. I leaned my head back and smiled. “He kissed you,” a little boy said. “That means he likes you.” “You think so?” I scrubbed my hands over Scout’s neck. “Yeah. Right, Cade? Dog kisses mean they like you.” I kept my eyes on Scout to avoid looking at Cade. “Yep, means he likes her.” He sat a few feet away and his words wrapped around me, his voice comforting. Scout lifted his paw and placed it on my knee. “What’s that mean, Cade?” The little boy pointed to my leg. “Hmm, maybe he doesn’t want her to leave.” I peeked over, and Cade met my gaze. “He likes her too much.” I looked away. “Maybe he loves her,” the little boy said in a singsong voice. Without missing a beat Cade said, “Maybe he does.” The little boy broke into a fit of belly laughs, and Cade scooted closer. He poked him playfully in the side. “Hey, what’s funny about that?” “He’s a dog. She’s a girl.” “That’s true,” Cade whispered. “But a pretty one, so can you really blame him?” The little boy giggled more. “That’s silly.” Scout nudged me with his wet nose and I cupped his face. “It’s okay, boy, the feeling is mutual.” Scout swiped his long tongue across my mouth. I grimaced and wiped my lips. “Not that mutual.” Cade lowered his voice and leaned slightly toward me. “And now he’s just rubbing it in.” The little boy laughed as he ran away, yelling something to his mom about the dog being in love with me.

ON 26 July 1926, Vita Sackville-West gave the Woolfs a cocker spaniel puppy which they named Pinka (or Pinker). She ate holes in Virginia’s skirt and devoured Leonard’s proofs. “But”, writes Virginia, “she is an angel of light. Leonard says seriously she makes him believe in God . . . and this after she has wetted his floor 8 times in one day”. For nine years Pinka was the much loved companion of both Leonard and Virginia, though in time she became essentially Leonard’s dog. Loved as she was, the pattern of her life naturally became woven into the pattern of theirs. The daily habits; her walk with Leonard round Tavistock Square garden in the morning before the day’s work began. Her joke of extinguishing, with her paw, Virginia’s match when she lit a cigarette, and so on. Virginia mentions her again and again in letters and diaries.

Therefore they spent such time as I was housekeeping, eating or sleeping, alone in the greenhouse, and I had to manage as best I could when, after these intervals, I went back to them, not to be knocked over by their joyful welcome. Gradually, however, things settled down. The secret of peace with puppies, I discovered—up to then I had had only ready-made dogs (except Bijou, who doesn’t count), and had everything to learn,—is to give them a great deal of exercise, and a great deal of food. They should be gorged; regularly. Then they will sleep for hours—quite long enough, I found, in Ingo and Ivo’s case, for me to deal justly with Mr. Anstruther, against whom I had been feeling rather a grudge. This, then, was the line I took; and presently a new rug was able safely to be put in the greenhouse, and while they lay on it, stupefied by well-being, lost to the world, a relaxed heap of paws and ears and tails, with two tightly-filled bellies to point the moral, I got on, once again, with Fräulein Schmidt.

A Full Moon stood in the centre of the Single Doorway, flooding the Hall with Light. The Statues on the Walls were all posed as if they had just turned to face the Doorway, their marble Eyes fixed on the Moon. They were different from the Statues in the other Halls; they were not isolated individuals, but the representation of a Crowd. Here were two with their Arms about each other; here one had his Hand on the Shoulder of the one in front, the better to pull himself forward to see the Moon; here a Child held on to its Father's Hand. There was even a Dog that - having no interest in the Moon - stood on its Hind Legs, its Front Paws on its Master's Chest, pleading for attention. The Rear Wall was a mass of Statues - not neatly arranged in Tears, but a jumbled, chaotic crowd. Foremost among them was a Young Man, who stood bathed in the Moonlight, elation in his Face, a Banner in his Hand. I almost forgot to breathe. For a moment I had an inkling of what it might be like if instead of two people in the World there were thousands.

A Full Moon stood in the centre of the Single Doorway, flooding the Hall with Light. The Statues on the Walls were all posed as if they had just turned to face the Doorway, their marble Eyes fixed on the Moon. They were different from the Statues in the other Halls; they were not isolated individuals, but the representation of a Crowd. Here were two with their Arms about each other; here one had his Hand on the Shoulder of the one in front, the better to pull himself forward to see the Moon; here a Child held on to its Father's Hand. There was even a Dog that - having no interest in the Moon - stood on its Hind Legs, its Front Paws on its Master's Chest, pleading for attention. The Rear Wall was a mass of Statues - not neatly arranged in Tears, but a jumbled, chaotic crowd. Foremost among them was a Young Man, who stood bathed in the Moonlight, elation in his Face, a Banner in his Hand. I almost forgot to breathe. For a moment I had an inkling of what it might be like if instead of two people in the World there were thousands.

You see, the penis, it's so graceless, wouldn't you agree? When it's cold and shrivelled up, it looks like W.H. Auden in his old age; when it's hot, it flops and dangles about in a ridiculous way; when it's excited, it looks so pained and earnest you'd think it was going to burst into tears. And the scrotum! To think that something so vital to the survival of the species, fully responsible for 50 per cent of the ingredients--though none of the work--should hang freely from the body in a tiny, defenceless bag of skin. One whack, one bite, one paw-scratch--and it's just the right level, too, for your average animal, a dog, a lion, a sabre-tooth tiger--and that's it, end of story. Don't you think it should get better protection? Behind some bone, for example, like us? What could be better than our nicely tapered entrance? It's discreet and stylish, everything is cleverly and compactly encased in the body, with nothing hanging out within easy reach of a closing subway door, there's a neat triangle of hair above it, like a road sign, should you lose your way--it's perfect. The penis is just such a lousy design. It's pre-Scandinavian. Pre-Bauhaus, even.

Ellie goes back to the kitchen . . . and screams bloody murder. “Nooooooo!” Adrenaline spikes through me and I dart to the kitchen, ready to fight. Until I see the cause of her screaming. “Bosco, noooooo!” It’s the rodent-dog. He got into the kitchen, somehow managed to hoist himself up onto the counter, and is in the process of demolishing his fourth pie. Fucking Christ, it’s impressive how fast he ate them. That a mutt his size could even eat that many. His stomach bulges with his ill-gotten gains—like a snake that ingested a monkey. A big one. “Thieving little bastard!” I yell. Ellie scoops him off the counter and I point my finger in his face. “Bad dog.” The little twat just snarls back. Ellie tosses the mongrel on the steps that lead up to the apartment and slams the door. Then we both turn and assess the damage. Two apple and a cherry are completely devoured, he nibbled at the edge of a peach and apple crumb and left tiny paw-prints in two lemon meringues. “We’re going to have re-bake all seven,” Ellie says. I fold my arms across my chest. “Looks that way.” “It’ll take hours,” she says. “Yeah.” “But we have to. There isn’t any other choice.” Silence follows. Heavy, meaningful silence. I glance sideways at Ellie, and she’s already peeking over at me. “Or . . . is there?” she asks slyly. I look at what remains of the damaged pastries, considering all the options. “If we slice off the chewed bits . . .” “And smooth out the meringue . . .” “Put the licked ones in the oven to dry out . . .” “Are you two out of your motherfucking minds?” I swing around to find Marty standing in the alley doorway behind us. Eavesdropping and horrified. Ellie tries to cover for us. But she’s bad at it. “Marty! When did you get here? We weren’t gonna do anything wrong.” Covert ops are not in her future. “Not anything wrong?” he mimics, stomping into the room. “Like getting us shut down by the goddamn health department? Like feeding people dog-drool pies—have you no couth?” “It was just a thought,” Ellie swears—starting to laugh. “A momentary lapse in judgment,” I say, backing her up. “We’re just really tired and—” “And you’ve been in this kitchen too long.” He points to the door. “Out you go.” When we don’t move, he goes for the broom. “Go on—get!” Ellie grabs her knapsack and I guide her out the back door as Marty sweeps at us like we’re vermin

blinking, then rose to his paws. “If you wish.” “He creeps me out,” a voice whispered in Hollyleaf’s ear. Hollyleaf started and turned to see Birchfall. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” she snapped, annoyed with herself because Sol was spooking her, too. “He’s just a cat.” As she finished speaking, Sol padded past her toward the entrance to the den. “I told you I would come back,” he murmured, quietly enough that she was the only cat to hear. Struggling to shrug off her feelings of uneasiness, Hollyleaf roused Lionblaze, and the sound of voices woke Purdy, who stumbled sleepily over to the remains of the rabbit. “You got to eat something before you go,” he meowed. “But you need it more than we do,” Brackenfur protested. “I can catch another,” Purdy retorted, his neck fur beginning to bristle. “You need to keep your strength up if you’re goin’ on a long journey.” The ThunderClan cats exchanged glances; clearly Purdy would be insulted if they refused, so they crowded around the last of the prey and forced down a few gristly scraps. Purdy watched them, while Sol just waited in the entrance, his gaze lifted to the sky. “Don’t go near them monsters,” Purdy instructed. “They’ll flatten you as soon as look at you. And there’s dogs give trouble sometimes.

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

What did you just call him?” “Rufus is a stupid name,” she says with a shrug. I choke on air. “Excuse me?” “You heard me. What even is a Rufus anyway?” “A name,” I answer. “A manly name for a manly dog.” “He looks like vanilla ice cream with chocolate sprinkles. It had to be changed.” “You can’t just change a dog’s name. He’s eight months old. He likes his name. He knows it.” “Does he?” she asks, arching a brow. Jesus, she looks so much like her mother right now it’s almost scary. “Rufus.” I whistle. “Come here boy.” He lets out a whimper, but stays rooted in place, his eyes trained on the girl with the snacks. “Sprinkles, come.” Priss points to the floor. That traitor rises to all fours, looking more regal than Queen Elizabeth herself as he marches to her side. Man’s best friend, my ass. “Good boy,” she says, stuffing another treat into his mouth. “Sprinkles, sit.” He sits. “Shake,” she says, holding out her hand for his paw. “You taught him all of that in less than two hours?” “Uh-huh. Wasn’t hard. I watched some dog training videos.” “Let me guess, YouTube?” She grins. “Well, it worked.” “I see that.” “So…Sprinkles?” She steeples her hands in front of her face, poking out her lip for added drama. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how my beast of a dog became a pansy.

Christ was always purveyed to me by people who clearly regarded me not only as a delinquent but as an object of pity. There is an attitude of complacent do-gooding condescension which even decent people cannot conceal and even a small child can recognize. Their religion seemed to me over-lit, over-simple, covertly threatening. There was nowhere to hide. We roared out 'choruses' about sin and redemption which reduced the hugest theological dogmas to the size of a parlour trick. I rejected the theology but was defenceless against the guilt which was so fruitlessly beaten into me. The mood was brisk and impatient. Either you were saved by the blood of the Lamb or else you were for it, a black and white matter of breath-taking rewards or whipping. The efficacious Saviour almost figured to me as a sort of agent provocateur. Again and again the trick failed to work, the briskness turned to severity and the jollity ended in tears. In so far as there were mysteries and depths in my life I kept them secret from Christ and his soldiery. I was more moved by animals than I was by Jesus. One of the porters had a dog, and this dog once, as I sat beside him on the ground, touched my arm with his paw. This gentle gesture has stayed with me forever. And I remember stroking a guinea pig at school and feeling such a piercing strange pain, the realization that happiness existed, but was denied to me.

There were fireflies riding on the dark air and a dog baying on some low and far-away ledge of the cliff. The table seemed to have risen a little toward the sky like a mechanical dancing platform, giving the people around it a sense of being alone with each other in the dark universe, nourished by its only food, warmed by its only lights. And, as if a curious hushed laugh from Mrs. McKisco were a signal that such a detachment from the world had been attained, the two Divers began suddenly to warm and glow and expand, as if to make up to their guests, already so subtly assured of their importance, so flattered with politeness, for anything they might still miss from that country well left behind. Just for a moment they seemed to speak to every one at the table, singly and together, assuring them of their friendliness, their affection. And for a moment the faces turned up toward them were like the faces of poor children at a Christmas tree. Then abruptly the table broke up - the moment when the guests had been daringly lifted above conviviality into the rarer atmosphere of sentiment, was over before it could be irreverently breathed, before they had half realized it was there. But the diffused magic of the hot sweet South had withdrawn into them - the soft-pawed night and the ghostly wash of the Mediterranean far below - the magic left these things and melted into the two Divers and became part of them. Tender is the Night, Ch VII

Albert?" The barking became more passionate, with cries and whimpers breaking in. Slowly Beatrix lowered to the ground and sat with her back against the shed. "Calm yourself, Albert," she said. "I'll let you out as soon as you're quiet." The terrier growled and pawed at the door. Having consulted several books on the subject of dogs, one on rough terriers in particular, Beatrix was fairly certain that training Albert with techniques involving dominance or punishment would not be at all effective. In fact, they would probably make his behavior worse. Terriers, the book had said, frequently tried to outsmart humans. The only method left was to reward his good behavior with praise and food and kindness. "Of course you're unhappy, poor boy. He's gone away, and your place is by his side. But I've come to collect you, and while he's gone, we'll work on your manners. Perhaps we can't turn you into a perfect lapdog... but I'll help you learn how to get on with others." She paused before adding with a reflective grin. "Of course, I can't manage to behave properly in polite society. I've always thought there's a fair amount of dishonesty involved in politeness. There, you're quiet now." She stood and pulled at the latch. "Here is your first rule, Albert: it's very rude to maul people." Albert burst out and jumped on her. Had she not been holding on to the support of the shed's frame, she would have been knocked over. Whining and wagging his tail, Albert stood on his hind legs and dove his face against her.

That’s where the shouts and yells of the twenty houses round about crash and rebound, even the cries of the concierges’ little birds, rotting away as they pipe for the spring they will never see in their cages beside the privies, which are all clustered together out at the dark end with their ill-fitting, banging doors. A hundred male and female drunks inhabit those bricks and feed the echoes with their boasting quarrels and muddled, eruptive oaths, especially after lunch on a Saturday. That’s the intense moment in family life. Shouts of defiance as the drink pours down. Papa is brandishing a chair, a sight worth seeing, like an axe, and Mama a log like a sabre! Heaven help the weak! It’s the kid who suffers. Anyone unable to defend himself or fight back – children, dogs and cats – is flattened against the wall. After the third glass of wine, the black kind, the worst, it’s the dog’s turn, Papa stamps on his paw. That’ll teach him to be hungry at the same time as people. It’s good for a laugh when he crawls under the bed, whimpering for all he’s worth. That’s the signal. Nothing arouses a drunken woman so much as an animal in pain, and bulls aren’t always handy. The argument starts up again, vindictive, compulsive, delirious, the wife takes the lead, hurling shrill calls to battle at the male. Then comes the mêlée, the smash-up. The uproar descends on the court, the echo swirls through the half-darkness. The children yap with horror. They’ve found out what Mama and Papa have in them! Their yells draw down parental thunders.

A strange structure untangled itself out of the background like a hallucination, not part of the natural landscape. It was a funny-shaped, almost spherical, green podlike thing woven from living branches of trees and vines. A trellis of vines hung down over the opening that served as a door. Wendy was so delighted tears sprang to her eyes. It was her Imaginary House! They all had them. Michael wanted his to be like a ship with views of the sea. John had wanted to live like a nomad on the steppes. And Wendy... Wendy had wanted something that was part of the natural world itself. She tentatively stepped forward, almost swooning at the heavy scent of the door flowers. Languorously lighting on them were a few scissorflies, silver and almost perfectly translucent in the glittery sunlight. Their sharp wings made little snickety noises as they fluttered off. Her shadow made a few half-hearted attempts to drag back, pointing to the jungle. But Wendy ignored her, stepping into the hut. She was immediately knocked over by a mad, barking thing that leapt at her from the darkness of the shelter. "Luna!" Wendy cried in joy. The wolf pup, which she had rescued in one of her earliest stories, stood triumphantly on her chest, drooling very visceral, very stinky dog spit onto her face. "Oh, Luna! You're real!" Wendy hugged the gray-and-white pup as tightly as she could, and it didn't let out a single protest yelp. Although... "You're a bit bigger than I imagined," Wendy said thoughtfully, sitting up. "I thought you were a puppy." Indeed, the wolf was approaching formidable size, although she was obviously not yet quite full-grown and still had large puppy paws. She was at least four stone and her coat was thick and fluffy. Yet she pranced back and forth like a child, not circling with the sly lope Wendy imagined adult wolves used. You're not a stupid little lapdog, are you?" Wendy whispered, nuzzling her face into the wolf's fur. Luna chuffed happily and gave her a big wet sloppy lick across the cheek. "Let's see what's inside the house!" As the cool interior embraced her, she felt a strange shudder of relief and... welcome was the only way she could describe it. She was home. The interior was small and cozy; plaited sweet-smelling rush mats softened the floor. The rounded walls made shelves difficult, so macramé ropes hung from the ceiling, cradling halved logs or flat stones that displayed pretty pebbles, several beautiful eggs, and what looked like a teacup made from a coconut. A lantern assembled from translucent pearly shells sat atop a real cherry writing desk, intricately carved and entirely out of place with the rest of the interior. Wendy picked up one of the pretty pebbles in wonder, turning it this way and that before putting it into her pocket. "This is... me..." she breathed. She had never been there before, but it felt so secure and so right that it couldn't have been anything but her home. Her real home. Here there was no slight tension on her back as she waited for footsteps to intrude, for reality to wake her from her dreams; there was nothing here to remind her of previous days, sad or happy ones. There were no windows looking out at the gray world of London. There was just peace, and the scent of the mats, and the quiet droning of insects and waves outside. "Never Land is a... mishmash of us. Of me," she said slowly. "It's what we imagine and dream of- including the dreams we can't quite remember.

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

I dispelled my invisibility for a few seconds in his full view, a finger resting provocatively on my lower lip, giving him a come-hither look under a streetlight. His jaw and the bottle of Żubrówka dropped at the same time. It shattered, drawing his eyes to the sidewalk, and I took the opportunity afforded by his distraction to disappear again. "That was mean," Oberon said, watching the man look wildly around for me and pawing at his eyes as if to clear them. Why? I asked. I’ve done him no harm. "Yes, you have. You will haunt him for the rest of his life. I know from experience." You’re haunted by someone flashing you on a street corner? "No. It was a dog park. Atticus and I were just arriving and she was leaving." Oh, here we go. "She was so fit and her coat was tightly curled and she had a perfect pouf on the end of her tail like a tennis ball. I saw her for maybe five seconds, until she hopped into a Honda and her human drove her away. And now I can’t see a Honda without seeing her." But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Kind of romantic? A vision of perfection you can treasure forever, unspoiled by reality. "Well, I don’t know. In reality I’d like to try spoiling her, if she was in the mood." Look, Oberon, that man is lonely. He’s too skinny and sweaty, and I’m willing to bet you five cows that he’s socially awkward or he wouldn’t be staggering drunk at this hour. But now, for the rest of his life, he will remember the na**d woman on the street who looked at him with desire. When people treat him like something untouchable, he will have that memory to comfort him. "Or obsess over. What if he starts wandering the streets every night looking for you?" Then he’s misunderstood the nature of beauty. It doesn’t stay, except in our minds. "Oh! I think I see. That’s true, Clever Girl! Sausage never stays, because I eat it, but it’s always beautiful in my mind.

Come here, you flea-ridden hair wad. You’ll have all the sugar biscuits you want, if you’ll give your new toy to me.” He whistled softly and clicked. But the blandishments did not work. Dodger merely regarded him with bright eyes and stayed at the threshold, clutching the vial in his tiny paws. “Give him one of your garters,” Leo said, still staring at the ferret. “I beg your pardon?” Miss Marks asked frostily. “You heard me. Take off a garter and offer it to him as a trade. Otherwise we’ll be chasing this damned animal all through the house. And I doubt Rohan will appreciate the delay.” The governess gave Leo a long-suffering glance. “Only for Mr. Rohan’s sake would I consent to this. Turn your back.” “For God’s sake, Marks, do you think anyone really wants a glance at those dried-up matchsticks you call legs?” But Leo complied, facing the opposite direction. He heard a great deal of rustling as Miss Marks sat on a bedroom chair and lifted her skirts. It just so happened that Leo was positioned near a full-length looking glass, the oval cheval style that tilted up or down to adjust one’s reflection. And he had an excellent view of Miss Marks in the chair. And the oddest thing happened—he got a flash of an astonishingly pretty leg. He blinked in bemusement, and then the skirts were dropped. “Here,” Miss Marks said gruffly, and tossed it in Leo’s direction. Turning, he managed to catch it in midair. Dodger surveyed them both with beady-eyed interest. Leo twirled the garter enticingly on his finger. “Have a look, Dodger. Blue silk with lace trim. Do all governesses anchor their stockings in such a delightful fashion? Perhaps those rumors about your unseemly past are true, Marks.” “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, my lord.” Dodger’s little head bobbed as it followed every movement of the garter. Fitting the vial in his mouth, the ferret carried it like a miniature dog, loping up to Leo with maddening slowness. “This is a trade, old fellow,” Leo told him. “You can’t have something for nothing.” Carefully Dodger set down the vial and reached for the garter. Leo simultaneously gave him the frilly circlet and snatched the vial.

Pixie lay in a basket by the fire where a dozen brown and white puppies wriggled around her.  She had surprised us by getting pregnant very soon after moving back in with us, and the puppies were just under four-weeks-old now. We couldn’t have been more thrilled, and Bandit couldn’t have been a better dad.  He seemed to have endless patience as they climbed all over him, these wriggling furballs of energy.  Literally everything excited them.   Sully kneeled down beside me to pet the nearest pup, one with a big brown patch over one eye and a butt that never quit shaking.   “Have you got names for them yet?”  I pointed at the one in his hand while Bandit said.  “That’s Patch” “Because of his eye, obviously,” I filled in. Hearing the name, Patch suddenly squirmed out of his hands and bolted for Bandit, but his little paws couldn’t quite get purchase on the new floor and he skidded all the way to Bandit who he bumped into, coming to a sudden stop.  Shaking his head, he looked up at Bandit with intelligent eyes, then sat, waiting for further instructions.  Sully and I shared a look.   They were too young to know their names or much more than that, but it definitely seemed that Patch had known his name and was now waiting for Bandit to begin a game or something.  I pointed at a different puppy, one with a white shape on his rump.   “That one’s Star.” Bandit said. The minute the iPad said his name, Star’s head shot up, then he too bounded over to sit beside his brother.  Sully’s mouth fell open.  “No way…. They’re too young to behave like this.” Feeling a wave of excitement, I watched as Bandit finished calling his kids.   “Panda, Ace, Champ…” As he called their names, each puppy jumped to attention, coming to sit in a neat row in front of Bandit until all twelve of them were in a line in front of him.   I snapped a look at Bandit.  “Did you know about this? Did you know they were super smart too?”  He snorted out of his nose, laughing at our shock.  Sully and I looked at each other, the same startled expression in our eyes. “But…” was all Sully could say.  I at least managed two whole words before the full ramifications of an entire household of super smart dogs could hit me. “Oh boy.

Chatting to the gossip of flames waking from the slumber of our flesh-drunk night together— it’s only when I step out to pee do I notice— how far, burgundy-dark, the moon has risen…. On four paws the shepherd- dogs bound, lightly though the trees they hardly touch on earth— we saw it from far sunk here in an always-ache…. Dyeing paling twilight woods— a pair of wasps, spiraling, writhe…. Wetted lips of hers and mine, just-parted, move over each other with tongues just-coming but refuse— like mists of evening they've no place to settle…. Just-here though she's singing she’s in some song from long ago— poised on the brink of twilight longing three thousand miles rush through my heart…. Under undulating curtains— I hover above her the tips of me brushing the tips of her— breathing back and forth a column of air we share our breath slowly asphyxiating…. From burning wood campfire sparks dart off extinguishing in the wet blue dark… how you blow your long wind across my embers, through my soul, she pleads me, take away the pain— I dip a branch in blue water and plunge it into coals…. *** In pre-dawn dark, against a leaping inferno of flames black monolith of wood in the cast iron compartment softens, and—gradually— fractures to cells, warping upward, until from the top a shard splinters: pearls of flame string a fiber and leap in little tongues while the log, glowing, engulfed, is consumed by the inferno contained…. A shadow daunts me, haunts and taunts me now reaching far, now recoiling, now growing bold…. I once sang eruptions and the wind— then appeared you it took my whole life singing only the songs of you and still I sing for you what other refuge can stay me from this torment? So— my doppelganger has arrived no one said it would happen this way but the way his hands fold like mine, the style of his humor, broadness of his smile— even the way he walks…. Licking and lapping these lashings of grasses are in tongues at my feet smoldering's the fury within me— I have seen my fields of daylight warp to noxious-air infernos but still to the clean blue of the flame I take rest in her breast…. His songs I mouth, and in my head is his voice— I cannot hear my own…. in my mind I see myself— thin, stupid— my arms too weak, my own chest too frail— and besides I prefer him more…. Along spiral lines, seed-heads decay— swept away they whirl and writhe in the hot blue fire of evening…. Stuck in a mural of sticky flesh— the family… I am locked-in-arms with brothers and sisters, drooping at the thighs with nieces and nephews, grafted to parents at the scalp, and pasted with toddlers all over… hived, sapped, black I sit, subject to the flavors and aromas of your abuse…. Then— be wrapped in his presence… crescendo to his warmth the cascade of your laughter search in his wrinkles for the boy inside him… I’m just biding here, bragless, trying to admit these rival-streams that flow in one latticework of blood…. Halves of flesh and bosomy hips, lips like dark ripe fruits they're chasing— I chased them… full-feathered was their hair like floss in the sunshine fine-fingered was their style like laces cut to curves: and then there was you, returning one, just there like the midnight moon in my sky at noontime….

choose each footfall—a twisted ankle was certain death now—and I saw the tread marks before Kolya. I grabbed his sleeve to stop him. We were at the edge of a vast clearing in the woods. The glare of sunlight off the hectares of snow was bright enough that I had to shield my eyes with my hand. The snow had been corrugated by dozens of tank treads, as if an entire Panzer brigade had passed through. I didn’t know treads the way I knew airplane engines, couldn’t tell a German Sturmtiger’s from a Russian T-34’s, but I knew these weren’t our tanks. We would have already broken the blockade if we had this much armor in the woods. Gray and brown heaps lay scattered across the snow. At first I thought they were discarded coats, but I saw a tail on one, an outstretched paw on another, and I realized they were dead dogs, at least a dozen of them. We heard another howl and finally we saw the howler, a black-and-white sheepdog dragging itself off the field, its front legs doing the work its hind legs could not. Behind the wounded animal was a blood-smeared trail more than a hundred meters long, a red brushstroke slapped across a white canvas.

After the rain ended, I tried my new trick with the dog door again, and sure enough, I was out in the backyard for a second time. I dug a hole, chewed the hose, and barked at Smokey, who was sitting in a window and pretending not to notice me. When a large yellow bus pulled up in front of the house, Ethan and several more neighborhood kids, including Chelsea, tumbled out. I jumped up to put my paws against the fence, and the boy ran to me, laughing.

Brody whined and stuck his nose in the cat’s face. With lightning speed, Vader smacked him solidly on the nose and went back to licking his paw and cleaning his whiskers as if nothing had happened. The dog backed up three steps and looked up at Matt. “Sorry, buddy,” Matt said. “It’s a cat. Nothing I can do.

Dinner time, Basil, yum yum.” The dog stared at her and then the bowl. He was equally as unimpressed as he lay down again. “Come on, you’ve got to eat. It might not look like much but perhaps it tastes better than it smells.” He sighed as he rested his head between his paws. She knew he wouldn’t move after getting into his brooding position. She left the bowl there and closed the cage. “Just try it, okay? You have to eat something.

tn Heb “like a lion, my hands and my feet.” This reading is often emended because it is grammatically awkward, but perhaps its awkwardness is by rhetorical design. Its broken syntax may be intended to convey the panic and terror felt by the psalmist. The psalmist may envision a lion pinning the hands and feet of its victim to the ground with its paws (a scene depicted in ancient Near Eastern art), or a lion biting the hands and feet. The line has been traditionally translated, “they pierce my hands and feet,” and then taken as foreshadowing the crucifixion of Christ. Though Jesus does appropriate the language of this psalm while on the cross (compare v. 1 with Matt 27:46 and Mark 15:34), the NT does not cite this verse in describing the death of Jesus. (It does refer to vv. 7-8 and 18, however. See Matt 27:35, 39, 43; Mark 15:24, 29; Luke 23:34; John 19:23-24.) If one were to insist on an emendation of כָּאֲרִי (ka’ariy, “like a lion”) to a verb, the most likely verbal root would be כָּרָה (karah, “dig”; see the LXX). In this context this verb could refer to the gnawing and tearing of wild dogs (cf. NCV, TEV, CEV). The ancient Greek version produced by Symmachus reads “bind” here, perhaps understanding a verbal root כרך, which is attested in later Hebrew and Aramaic and means “to encircle, entwine, embrace” (see HALOT 497-98 s.v. כרך and Jastrow 668 s.v. כָּרַךְ). Neither one of these proposed verbs can yield a meaning “bore, pierce.

Lionhearts One very cold night in Ann Arbor I went to a party where “Kate Bush” was the password. I put on my Uggs & trudged through the slush. I climbed the fire escape to an attic apartment where five other writers & I sat around a Crosley turntable & a box of Bordeaux Blend & a stale bâtard with expensive butter & listened to Lionheart & talked about line breaks & grew increasingly drunk & complimentary & eager —for aesthetics’ sake— to investigate each other up close. Some of us kissed. Kate stalked us from the cover—crimped mane & lion-skin suit—as two people with silk scarves tied someone to the radiator & danced madly, leaping on chairs, licking paws! Leo rising, downward dog! Candles sputtering their last magic into the rafters as we sank straight through the secondhand loveseat: floral flickering, ticking undone. This is one of my fondest memories. The whole room a gold & rolling ship of girl flame! But there— in the dark, catholic corners where I can’t quite see—a stowaway sometimes darts. Imagine such a creature: subsisting all this time on the dusty crusts & vinegars of someone else’s slight & misplaced shame.

When Ellen announced that supper was ready Douglas Starr told Emily to go out to it. “I don’t want anything tonight. I’ll just lie here and rest. And when you come in again we’ll have a real talk, Elfkin.” He smiled up at her his old, beautiful smile, with the love behind it, that Emily always found so sweet. She ate her supper quite happily—though it wasn’t a good supper. The bread was soggy and her egg was underdone, but for a wonder she was allowed to have both Saucy Sal and Mike sitting, one on each side of her, and Ellen only grunted when Emily fed them wee bits of bread and butter. Mike had such a cute way of sitting up on his haunches and catching the bits in his paws, and Saucy Sal had her trick of touching Emily’s ankle with an almost human touch when her turn was too long in coming. Emily loved them both, but Mike was her favourite. He was a handsome, dark-grey cat with huge owl-like eyes, and he was so soft and fat and fluffy. Sal was always thin; no amount of feeding put any flesh on her bones. Emily liked her, but never cared to cuddle or stroke her because of her thinness. Yet there was a sort of weird beauty about her that appealed to Emily. She was grey-and-white—very white and very sleek, with a long, pointed face, very long ears and very green eyes. She was a redoubtable fighter, and strange cats were vanquished in one round. The fearless little spitfire would even attack dogs and rout them utterly. Emily loved her pussies. She had brought them up herself, as she proudly said. They had been given to her when they were kittens by her Sunday School teacher. “A living present is so nice,” she told Ellen, “because it keeps on getting nicer all the time.

Dogs are not like cats, who amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw. Men made dogs, they took wolves and gave them human things - unnecessary intelligence, names, a desire to belong, and a twitching inferiority complex. All dogs dream wolf dreams, and know they're dreaming of biting their Maker. Every dog knows, deep in his heart, that he is a Bad Dog...

When Diana finally felt ready, they went back to the shelter in Dennis and found a medium-sized mutt, a cheerful fellow with bushy brown fur and eyes like bright black buttons. He seemed to be the result of the union between a corgi and some kind of terrier, and, like Willa, he'd been abandoned, tied up underneath a bridge, starving, with his fur full of mats and burrs and every kind of bug. Diana and Michael brought him home. They brushed the remaining dirt and twigs and burrs out of his coat, and fed him kibble soaked in chicken broth, and tossed a tennis ball for him to fetch. Eventually, his favorite thing became sitting in the prow of a kayak with his back paws on the base of the boat and his front paws on its top, gazing out across the water as Diana paddled.

In complex organisms, reactions to perceived causes are not always hard-coded. A dog can learn that if it gives its paw, it receives a treat. So, predicting a treat, it will offer to give its paw. The perceived causal link between the paw and the treat influences the dog’s behavior; it shapes its decisions to act. Humans extract causal connections from experiences too; we do it all the time without much thought.

His ears strained to pick up the least sound of tiny paws; instead, all he could hear was a furious yowling and scuffling that broke out somewhere ahead, near the Twoleg fence. Was something—maybe a Twoleg dog—attacking his warriors? He raced through the trees until he came to the edge of the wood. Ashfur and Brambleclaw were scuffling with an unfamiliar black-and-white cat. Brambleclaw had climbed onto the cat’s back, clawing at its neck fur, while Ashfur bit down hard on the end of its tail. The black-and-white cat was writhing on the ground, his flailing paws barely touching his attackers. “Get off me!” he yowled. “I need to see Rusty—I mean Firestar!” Firestar suddenly recognized the disheveled bundle of black-and-white fur. It was Smudge, the kittypet who had been his friend before Firestar left his Twolegs to live in the forest. “Stop!” He ran over to the wrestling cats, lowering his head to butt Brambleclaw hard in his flank. Brambleclaw slid off Smudge’s back, glaring up with a furious hiss that broke off when he realized who had interrupted the fight. “Leave him alone,” Firestar ordered. “But he’s an intruder,” Brambleclaw protested, scrambling to his paws and shaking dust from his pelt. “A kittypet intruder,” added Ashfur, reluctantly letting go of Smudge’s tail. “No, he’s not,” Firestar corrected them. “He’s a friend. What are you two doing here, anyway?” “We’re the border patrol,” Brambleclaw told him. “With Dustpelt and Mousefur. Look, here they come.” Following the direction of his pointing tail, Firestar spotted the two older warriors bounding rapidly through the trees. “In StarClan’s name, what’s going on?” Dustpelt demanded. “I thought a fox must have gotten you from all that noise.” “No, just a kittypet,” Firestar mewed, faintly amused at Brambleclaw’s and Ashfur’s outraged expressions. “Okay, carry on with your patrol,” he added. “But what about the kittypet?” Ashfur asked. “I think I can handle him,” Firestar mewed. “You’re doing fine, but just remember that not everything you haven’t seen before is a threat.” Brambleclaw and Ashfur fell in behind Dustpelt and Mousefur as they continued their patrol; Brambleclaw cast a threatening glance back at Smudge and hissed, “Stay off our territory in the future!” Smudge heaved himself to his paws, glaring at his attackers. His fur was covered in dust and stuck out in all directions, but he didn’t seem to be hurt. “You’re lucky I was here to save your pelt,” Firestar remarked as the patrol vanished among the trees. His old friend let out a furious snort. “I’ll never understand you, Firestar. You actually want to live with these violent ruffians?” Firestar hid his amusement.

Sometimes they worked out, and sometimes they ended up requiring payday loans or laser tattoo removal to fix—never date an impulsive tattoo artist.

Like a daft cow, I dropped my phone overboard the very first day. I would have bought another one at the next port, but I came down with food poisoning, if you can believe it. The seasickness didn’t help much, either. I spent the entire cruise locked in my room or in the infirmary.

His tail arched gaily over his back and waved like a beautiful plume. Long golden hair fell like a curtain over his face, hiding his eyes until they flashed out merrily when he tossed his head. He was, Momo knew, the most beautiful dog in the world, and as her father had said of the head lama’s terrier, like a prince among men. He was as gentle as he was strong, and had fine manners. Before entering the house in winter he always stopped to shake the snow from his long, thick hair. He sat up and begged for his tsampa, and said thank you with a bark and a wave of his paw. He could stand on his hind legs and dance to the music of Nema’s fiddle. Day and night he was at Momo’s side, in the house or on the hills, and always lovingly obedient to her least command, a merry and adoring companion. He understood, naturally, all her words and even her thoughts, and Momo returned his love in full measure.

I knew it was you the moment I saw that truck." Puddin' ran to her and started jumping around like fire ants were attacking his paws. "I knew it was you the moment I saw you too," Von said as he dusted his hands on the front of his T-shirt. He held one out to her. "Von Montgomery. And you are?" "She's the dog sitter," Thad answered for her. He fought the instinct to push Von out of the room. "Ah! Puddin's favorite person," Von said. "That would explain his excitement." Ashanti dropped down to one knee and rubbed the poodle behind the ears while nuzzling his nose. It would be stupid and immature to admit he was jealous of a dog, and yet...

Hanzo went to freshen up and prepare him and Jiro something to eat. "Right," Jiro said when his highly trained ears heard the sound of water running. Hanzo was in the shower, so Jiro had to make this quick. Standing up on his two back paws, Jiro walked over to the distinctly larger than him the punching bag. "Kyah!" Jiro barked out and did a spinning kick into the punching bag. The punching bag didn't move as much because he wasn't as big or strong as Hanzo, but it moved. Jiro had watched Hanzo train for years in the Japanese martial arts. Hanzo is in fact, a successor of a powerful Japanese ninja family. Since Hanzo had lost his family, Jiro made it his duty to become Hanzo's heir. "Kyah!" Jiro barked again and jumped high into the air and landed a powerful punch towards the upper half of the punching bag. For a dog, his skills were impressive.

The black beast stood on its hind legs, resting the front paws on the mesh fence surrounding its home. But once the pen opened, Cerberus spilled out like a wiggly croissant.

Nice one, Hero!” Noah was laughing so hard he could barely speak. “Hero’s just reminding us who’s in charge,” Jack said. “I keep telling Scout to respect his elders, but he’s not listening.” No one knew what kind of dog Scout was, but Ben could tell he was going to catch up to the large, muscular Hero one day—and then Hero would be in trouble. After Hero and Ben had saved baby Scout from a dogfighting ring, he’d gone to live with Jack at the beginning of the summer, after Jack’s old dog passed away. Since then, the little mutt had almost doubled in size from a tiny puppy to about the size of a full-grown beagle. He was finally growing into his gigantic paws—but he still had a long way to go. Because Scout and Hero wanted to play all the time, Jack and Ben had become really good friends, talking nonstop about their two favorite things: dogs and baseball. Ben played shortstop, and Jack was at first base. That meant Jack and Noah—Ben’s best friend since kindergarten, who was the team’s starting pitcher—also hung out a lot. Ben wasn’t always sure

While I was in the kitchen, I heard the sound of the blinds clanking against the window. I hurried into the living room to see Stella pawing repeatedly at the closed shades. She was gesturing that she wanted the blinds pulled up so she could look out the window. I joined Stella on the couch and tapped the blinds with my hand. I said “help,” then walked over a couple of feet to also say “help” with Stella’s button. When I pulled the shades up, I said “help” a few more times and watched Stella’s gaze following the blinds sliding up the window. By imitating her gestures, I was showing that I understood what she wanted. Then I added a word to go along with her gestures.

Paw Patrollers consisted of two buildings separated by a large square of well-maintained grass that looked out of place in the middle of Cleveland. The first building was small and square, with a sign over the door that labeled it the main office. Across the yard, the other building was lower with a rectangular shape. It looked like a miniature stable, and I assumed that was where the dogs were boarded

When your dog is becoming more aware of your modeling, create communication opportunities within your routines When you see your dog noticing your modeling or noticing the buttons, turn your routine interactions into language-facilitating opportunities. The greatest cue we can provide is a long, silent pause to give the AAC user a chance to process what is happening and try exploring her words. When you see your dog communicate through a gesture or vocalization, stay quiet for at least ten to fifteen seconds. At the end of fifteen seconds, if your dog looks like she might be walking toward her buttons or is looking at them, continue staying quiet. If you have not seen an indication that she might try saying a word, add the next level of naturalistic cueing. Add naturalistic cues if necessary After you have already tried staying silent, you can try standing next to your dog’s buttons or pointing at them. Dogs respond to human gestural social cues as early as six weeks old! If pointing or standing near the buttons does not work, you can try tapping it with your finger or foot, not pushing it to activate it. You can also try adding an open-ended verbal prompt such as, “What do you want?” Avoid telling your dog exactly what to say or forcing your dog to push a button with their paw. This can cause prompt dependency and keep your dog from learning how to use words independently. If none of these prompts encourage your dog to try saying a word, simply model it again verbally and with the button, and carry on with the appropriate action.

Provide positive praise when your dog tries to use their device If your dog approaches the device, sniffs it, paws at it, licks it, stares at it, be excited! Show your dog that you are proud that she is exploring and testing out the new object in her space. If your dog successfully pushes a button, respond to it! Even if you think it was accidental or she was just pushing it to explore, respond! Your dog will learn the meaning of the words by observing your reactions whenever she uses it.

I come bearing brews and treats for Longganisa. There was a gourmet pet store by the restaurant I went to last night and the salesperson promised these treats were both delicious and diet-friendly." Jae held up a four-pack of beer, a bottle of Adeena's cold brew, a bag of Elena's calming tea blend, and a box of organic dog treats. "Where should I put them?" I led him into the kitchen, where Longganisa lay in wait. As soon as he stepped into the room, she pounced on his legs, barking and nudging him until he'd set down everything and stooped down to pet her. "Hey there, Longganisa. I missed you, too." He held out a treat and she went still. "Son jooseyo." She put a chubby paw in his hand and received a treat in return. I laughed to myself at this scene as I washed my hands and got dinner ready. Jae had taken Nisa out one day when I was sick, and his mom had taught my dog the command for "paw" in Korean. Which was adorable in itself, but it wasn't until Jae translated and explained his mom had been politely asking my dog to "please give me your hand" that I melted.

Max stood on his hind legs and pawed at Liam's chest, tail wagging, furry face nuzzling until Liam stood and lifted him into his arms. Max licked his face and Liam's tension eased. He won't know that Max is a very special dog. "He sure likes you," Daisy's neighbor said. "He's not usually that friendly with strangers." "I'm not a stranger.

Money created a different sort of man, and she wanted no part of it...

I'm infected with perpetual late-itis. The doctor says it's terminal.

From the den, they heard… like the busy whistling of a bird on a branch in springtime… a high-pitched breathy monologue, a squeaky soliloquy… Connor was talking, Connor was babbling, to Casey! They sat side by side on the den sofa – Casey, resting her head on her front paws, gazed off into the middle distance, while Conner looked down upon her from above and held forth. The mumble of little whispery syllables included, frequently, “Ay-ee,” followed by a deep breath, and then another arpeggio of nasally notes. The mother and the speech therapist couldn’t make out the subject, but they perceived emotion, syntax, punctuation, narrative arc, rising tension, and perhaps even denouement. Since Casey’s arrival, Connor had worked hard to speak loudly and clearly enough for his commands to be understood; now he seemed to have grasped the essence of speech as a medium for relaying one’s innermost thoughts and feelings to one’s closest friend.

Her paws scratched on the windowsill as she sounded the alarm. I liked having a warning bark, and the idea of having a pet around permanently was appealing. Maybe even healing. Someone to love unconditionally. Perhaps even provide a bit of security.

Shadow?" I said. He understood me, of course--- he always does. I do not entirely comprehend the bond between us, as Shadow is the only grim I know of to take a human master, but the beast immediately shed his glamour, growing to a size closer to a bear than anything else, his huge paws tipped in jagged claws.

horse heart hyene heart swan spine silver fish shin -ing in black water yes timber wolf tooth yes pity the ark with its belly full of glow -ing tongues touch the lion's paw only while it sleeps the red -tailed hawk with its jewels for eyes swallows the field mouse and the mouse was the only proof the field existed what else will be fogotten the hawk will starve soon we will starve soon the dogs will howl like a god learning the word for light and nothing will howl back

He spoke to Tommy in the way a dog does speak. He came up to him, shook himself, put a paw on Tommy's trouser leg and tried to pull him in the direction from which he had just come.

As I start up the steep hillside, I hear a man screaming. It’s Reck, shrieking in the darkness somewhere. Brag has him. “GOOD BOY!” I shout, scrambling up the dusty trail on all fours. But there’s no need to go any farther because Brag is bringing Reck to me. They appear in a surreal cloud of flash-light-beam illuminating dust. Brag is dragging the man by his lower leg, thrashing his head like a shark, digging his paws into the dusty earth.

Bongo was restless. It had rained the day before and he’d been stuck inside because if we went outside his feet would get wet. He will happily stand in a puddle or chest deep in a fishpond, but wet grass on his paws is an abomination. Dogs, man. Dogs.

Germans have a term, Fernweh, that signifies “yearning for a distant place.” Having grown up in small-town Ohio, almost literally in the middle of a cornfield, I’ve always had a particularly strong sense of Fernweh. When I went to college, I took every opportunity to travel, working in Hawaii with dolphins, attending a semester abroad in England, and even backpacking through Greece. There have been countless vacations and trips. The world is a vast and infinitely interesting place, and in truth, I’ve always looked down on people who chose not to wander, not to see and experience different cultures. Maybe there was something deeply ironic in the fact that this chance encounter with an elderly Athabascan woman pushed me to reconsider my stance. She was content, serene. Could I say the same? Not really. She didn’t need to tell stories about wild sled rides to make her friends jealous; she didn’t need to supplement her life with cheap souvenirs from tourist traps. She only needed the now of the weather, the dogs, and the mushers. I wondered if all the adventures in the world could ever bring me such peace.

I drove my Border Collies crazy for a few weeks trying to teach them to wait at the door as a group and then go outside one at a time. Each dog could go out the door after I said his or her name, followed by the word OK. As soon as I said “OK,” not surprisingly, all the dogs would get up and move forward, no matter whose name preceded it. I knew it would be hard for them, since they had all learned as individuals that “OK” meant “Go ahead and do what you want.” But I thought that if I were clear and patient, they would learn to move only if they heard “OK” after their own name. After a couple of weeks, I was frustrated and my dogs were confused. Pip was so distressed that she started to stress-whine. Pip gets the connection between a sound and an action faster than any dog I’ve ever had, but she never could figure out that “OK” only related to her if her name preceded it. She’d sit waiting at the door, I’d say “Luke, OK,” and she’d start to move forward and backward, clearly unsure of how to proceed, searching my face for clues until she began to look stressed when I moved toward the door. She practically wrapped her paws over her ears.

Cats will knead their paws to show they are happy; they will purr too. If a cat is pleased to see someone, it will pull its tail up vertically; however, if a cat is wagging its tail, unlike a dog, it means that it is angry!

Besides, it was a high bed. The dogs could never have gotten into it without help. Maybe one could have stood with its front paws on the bed frame while the other scaled its back in some unlikely dachshund Cirque de Soleil, but even then there would be only one dog in her bed, not two.

There’s something else, too, Miss Emmie.” Stevens had gone bashful now, and Emmie was intrigued. “Here.” Stevens beckoned her to follow him out the back of the stables, to where a separate entrance led to a roomy foaling stall. “He said you needed summat other’n t’mule, and you’re to limber her up, as Miss Winnie will be getting a pony soon.” A sturdy dapple-gray mare stood regarding Emmie from over a pile of hay. She turned a soft eye on Emmie and came over to the half door to greet her visitors. “Oh, Stevens.” Emmie’s eyes teared up again. “She is so pretty… so pretty.” “He left ye a message.” Stevens disappeared back into the barn and came out with a sealed envelope. “I can tack her up if ye like.” Emmie tore open the envelope with shaking fingers. How dare he be so thoughtful and generous and kind? Oh, how dare he… She couldn’t keep the horse, of course; it would not be in the least proper, but dear Lord, the animal was lovely… My dear Miss Farnum, Her name is Petunia, and she is yours. I have taken myself to points distant, so by the time I return, you will have fallen in love with her, and I will be spared your arguments and remonstrations. She is as trustworthy and reliable a lady as I have met outside your kitchen, and at five years of age, has plenty of service yet to give. Bothwell has been alerted you will be joining him on his rides, should it please you to do so. And if you are still determined not to keep the horse, dear lady, then consider her my attempt at consolation to you for inflicting Scout on the household in my absence. St. Just He’d drawn a sketch in the corner of Scout, huge paws splayed, tongue hanging, his expression bewildered, and broken crockery scattered in every direction. The little cartoon made Emmie smile through her tears even as Winnie tugged Scout out behind the stables to track Emmie down. “Are you crying, Miss Emmie?” Winnie picked up Emmie’s hand. “You mustn’t be sad, as we have Scout now to protect us and keep us company.” “It isn’t Scout, Winnie.” Emmie waved a hand toward the stall where Petunia was still hanging her head over the door, placidly watching the passing scene. “Oh.” Winnie’s eyes went round. “There’s a new horse, Scout.” She picked up her puppy and brought him over to the horse. The mare sniffed at the dog delicately, then at the child, then picked up another mouthful of hay. “Her name’s Petunia,” Emmie said, finding her handkerchief. “The earl brought her from York so I can ride out with the vicar.” “She’s very pretty,” Winnie said, stroking the velvety gray nose. “And not too big.” The mare was fairly good size, at least sixteen and a half hands, and much too big for Winnie. “Maybe once I get used to her, I can take you up with me, Winnie. Would you like that?” “Would I?” Winnie squealed, setting the dog down. “Did you hear that, Scout? Miss Emmie says we can go for a ride. Oh… We must write to the earl and thank him, Miss Emmie, and I must tell Rose I have a puppy, too. I can knight Scout, can’t I?” “Of course you may,” Emmie said, reaching for Winnie’s hand. “Though you must know knights would never deign to be seen in the castle kitchens, except perhaps in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to go charging about the kingdom.” “Did knights sleep in beds?” “Scout can stay with Stevens above the carriage house when you have repaired to your princess tower for your beauty sleep.” “I’ll ask Scout.” It

Ah, listen, I was just getting her up. You mind?” Wrath dragged a hand through his hair. “No, no, yeah, it’s cool.” “You want me to come to your office afterward?” He wondered what the room looked like, and painted the space according to what his Beth had said was in it. Cluttered, he thought. Homey. Cheerful. Pink. Nothing that Z would have been caught dead in before he’d met Bella. “Wrath? What’s going on here?” “You mind if I come in?” “Ah . . . sure. Yeah, I mean, Bella’s working out so we’ve got some privacy. But you’re going to want to—” Chhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! “—watch where you step.” Wrath lifted up his shitkicker and whatever toy he’d crushed reinflated with a wheeze. “Fuck, did I break it?” “I think it’s a dog toy, actually. Yeah, I’m pretty sure she picked it up from George downstairs. You want it back?” “He’s got plenty. She can have it.” As he shut the door, he was painfully aware that they were each talking about their young—only Wrath’s had four paws and a tail. Least he didn’t have to worry about George succeeding him or being blind. Z’s voice came from deeper in the room. “You can sit on the foot of the bed if you go fifteen feet straight ahead of you.” “Thanks.” He didn’t particularly want to park it, but if he stayed standing, he was going to want to pace and it wouldn’t be long before he tripped over something that wasn’t a toy. Over in the corner, Z spoke softly to his daughter, the words rolling into some kind of rhythm like he was talking through a song. In reply, there were all kinds of cooing. And then came something that sounded terrifyingly clear: “Dada.

Do you think I can feed him leftover steak?” she said sounding a bit muffled. Bent at the waist, Rachel riffled through the fridge.  Clay sat off to the side with a perfect view of her string bikinied backside, only he wasn’t looking.  He faced the arched door, watching for me.  Should I be happy that he’d ignored the perfect view or annoyed?  Instead of thinking about it, I answered Rachel. “I’m pretty sure people-food is bad for dogs.”  Yes, I knew it wasn’t nice, but if he wanted to play the dog, I’d play along.  “We can pick up some dog food for him in the morning.  He’ll be fine overnight.” I sat at the kitchen table, pulled my legs up, held my knees, and watched Rachel straighten from the fridge and let the door close.  She turned to look at Clay with concern, but Clay ignored her and continued to watch me. My stomach growled. “But dinner does sound good,” I said to Rachel, ignoring Clay.  “I should have thought of groceries while we were shopping.” “No problem.  I forgot to tell you during the grand tour that there’s a cupboard over there that you can stock and call your own.  The top shelf in the fridge is mine.  But don’t worry about it for tonight.  I was lazy yesterday and ordered take-out pizza.  There’s still plenty if you don’t mind leftovers.” “Leftovers are fine with me.”  My stomach rumbled in agreement. “We’ve got cheap plastic plates in the cupboard to the left of the sink—inherited from a prior roommate.  Grab two, will you?” she said as she re-opened the fridge. I unfolded myself from the chair and grabbed the plates while Rachel pulled the pizza from the fridge.  Clay lay down where he sat and put his massive head on his paws.  I could see his eyes move to follow my progress. Rachel

I fetched my bag, tucked the folded newspaper inside, and grabbed the house keys. Clay beat me to the door.  I scowled down at him.  He stared back at me.  After a moment, he shook his neck, jangling his tags.  Defeated, I clipped on his leash.  He negotiated well without using a single word. I used my cell to call the number for the first ad.  The man sounded a bit brusque as if my planned visit inconvenienced him.  Shrugging it off, I led Clay to the address.  A rusty car parked on the front lawn with a “for sale” sign affirmed I had the right place.  Clay and I walked toward the car. A man called hello from the open garage and made his way toward us.  As he neared, his demeanor changed, and I inwardly groaned.  He introduced himself as Howard and looked me over with interest.  Clay moved to stand between us, his stoic presence a good deterrent. Howard talked about the car for a bit, going through the laundry list of its deficiencies.  Then he popped the hood so I could look at the engine.  In the middle of Howard’s attempt to impress me with his vast mechanical knowledge, Clay sprang up between us.  Howard yelped at Clay’s sudden move and edged away as Clay placed his paws on the front of the car to get a good look at the engine, too.  I fought not to smile at the man’s stunned expression.  At Clay’s discreet nod, I bought the car, not bothering with the second ad. No matter what errand I wanted to run during the week before classes started, Clay insisted on tagging along.  On Friday, when I drove to the bookstore, Clay rode a very cramped shotgun and waited in the car while I made my purchases.  Later, he sat in the hot car again while I bought some basic school supplies. However, Monday, when I tried leaving for my first class, I put my foot down.  He bristled and growled and tried to follow me. “Your license only wins you so much freedom.  Dogs aren’t allowed on campus and definitely not in the classroom.” Thankfully, Rachel had left first and didn’t hear me scold him. I tried to leave again, but he stubbornly persisted.  Finally, exasperated, I reminded him that he slept on my bed because of my good grace.  He resentfully stepped away from the door. *

He wondered how a dog no bigger than a loaf of bread had accomplished so much damage in a matter of moments.

case. They appeared to be the front legs of a calf starting just above the ankle joint. In the actual MRI, the dogs would be scanned in a sphinx position. Their heads would be upright, supported by a chin rest, and their front paws would be sticking straight forward. Andrew

The terrier mix is named Alabama. His tail thumps a beat on the side of the crate. “Alabama is a gobbler real bad,” Theresa says. In making their reports, the AFB techs must take into account the animals’ individual mealtime quirks. There are gulpers, circlers, tippers, snooters. If you weren’t acquainted with Alabama’s neighbor Elvis, for example, you’d think he was blasé about both foods just now set before him. Theresa gives a running commentary of Elvis’s behavior while a colleague jots notes. “Sniffing A. Sniffing B. Licking B, licking his paws. Going back to A. Looking at A. Sniffing B. Eating B.” Most dogs are more decisive. Like Porkchop. “You’ll see. He’ll sniff both, pick one, eat it. Ready?” She puts two bowls by Porkchop’s front paws. “Sniffing A, sniffing B, eating A. See? That’s what he does.

There was a muffled shriek from somewhere in the library, followed by a string of howled curses and the familiar pitter-patter of paws on stone. Then Fleetfoot came sprinting down the row, a scroll of paper in her jaws. “Wicked beast!” a man was shouting. “Come back here at once!” Fleetfoot just zoomed on by, a blur of gold. A moment later, when the little librarian came waddling into view and asked if they’d seen a dog, Celaena only shook her head and said that she had heard something—from the opposite direction. And then she told him to keep his voice down, because this was a library.

It was a glorious evening, the sun seeming to hesitate in the process of setting, as if it couldn't bear to end the day. It was teetering on the horizon, throwing ribbons of pink and mauve across the sky like life ropes, and the air was sweet with jasmine. They'd brought the white cane chairs down from the house, and Anthony, having spent the afternoon entertaining the girls, had finally opened the newspaper he'd brought with him, only to fall into a doze behind it. Edwina, the new puppy, was leaping about at Eleanor's feet, pouncing on a ball the girls had found for her, and Eleanor was rolling it gently along the cooling lawn, laughing fondly as the puppy tripped over her ears to fetch it back. She was teasing the little dog, lifting the ball just out of reach for the pleasure of seeing her balance on her hind legs, cycle her little paws in the air, and then snap at it with her teeth. They were sharp teeth. The puppy had already managed to tear holes in most of Eleanor's stockings. Darling little menace, she had a sixth sense for rooting out the things she shouldn't have, but it was impossible to be cross with her. She only had to look up with those big brown eyes and cock her head just so and Eleanor melted. She'd wanted a dog when she was a girl, but her mother had declared them "filthy beasts" and that was that.

You take refuge in pets, and then there are pets that you love more than you thought you could, and the years go by fast, and suddenly you're standing there watching as they don't die quickly from the injection like the vet assured you they would. And you stand there feeling like once again you're screwing up the bigger plan that something up there must have, trying to snuff this innocent thing out quietly and quickly because of what happened inside of its liver, heart, and kidneys; because they said there would be only painful weeks left anyway; weeks of more breakdown and bad cell division, bleeding, dehydration; you couldn't stand seeing the pain, the blood coming up again, and innocent eyes full of confusion and so you said yes. You think you're being strong again, you agree, you bring her in, one quick little tiny sting and then it's off to sleep in heaven, if animals can get in. The paw is shaved, the little sting happens, you put her favorite toy down next to the cold, clear, thin hose full of a drip of who knows, the hose that has no idea what it's really doing today, the tube you keep second-guessing. But, go, just go, just go, just do this, fuck, nobody's ever going to explain it, do it, do it, do it. And suddenly she's full of life again, looking at you like you've made yet another mistake on this planet, how the fuck did this happen, how does any of it happen, cats, dogs, babies, parents, all turned to fucking angels living in a place you aren't even sure you believe in.

Volnay is prancing, head up proudly; her squat little bowlegs producing a smooth gait that would make the dog show people preen. She carries herself like a supermodel. Weiner dog or no, she is a fairly perfect specimen of her breed. And I know I'm supposed to be all about the rescue mutts, and I give money to PAWS every year, but there is something about having a dog with a pedigree that makes me smile. Her AKC name is The Lady Volnay of Cote de Beaune. The French would call her a jolie laide, "beautiful ugly," like those people whose slightly off features, sort of unattractive and unconventional on their own, come together to make someone who is compelling, striking, and handsome in a unique way. I'm always so proud that I'm her person.

I wish Chunk was here to see this' 'If Chunk was here, he would be dead by now," Hannah declared. 'Who's Chuck?' Rex asked. As if I would name my dog Chuck. Sometimes I found Rex to be so stupid. 'It's Chunk, like chunky peanut butter. Chunk. He's my dog. He's amazing and he's dignified. He's got more dignity in one of his paws than Shakira does in her entire left hip.

Exaggerating Your Gestures “Have you ever walked through a door and been jumped on by an over-enthusiastic dog with big paws who practically knocked you down? Some people have that effect. Being too flamboyant and over-boisterous can be overkill and push people away. Drama queens and kings have mastered these exaggerations, much to the chagrin of their observers. Remaining intentional in your gestures is a mark of poise, elegance, and maturity.

Dogs are miracles with paws. -Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy

We never let Watch get up on the beds,” said Violet softly. “I always let my dog lie on my bed,” said Aunt Jane. Watch looked first at one and then at the other. “Up!” said Aunt Jane. Watch gave a great jump and landed on the other side of the little lady. He lay down and put his head on his paws. He was not sure that he had done the right thing. He kept looking at Violet. Violet was watching her aunt smile at Watch. She was sure that Watch had done the right thing.