Pets Are Not Disposable Quotes

It was really rather wretched that you couldn’t will yourself to fall in love, for the very effort can keep falling at bay. Nor could you will yourself to stay that way. Least of all could you will yourself NOT to fall in love, for thus far whatever meager resistance she had put up had only made the compulsion more intense. So you were perpetually tyrannized by a feeling that came and went as it pleased, like a cat with its own pet door. How much more agreeable, if love were something that you stirred up from a reliable recipe, or elected, however perversely, to pour down the drain. Still, there was nothing for it. The popular expression notwithstanding, love was not something you made. Nor could you dispose of the stuff once manifested because it was inconvenient, or even because it was wicked, and ruining your life, and, by the by, someone else’s.

The Chorus Line: The Birth of Telemachus, An Idyll Nine months he sailed the wine-red seas of his mother's blood Out of the cave of dreaded Night, of sleep, Of troubling dreams he sailed In his frail dark boat, the boat of himself, Through the dangerous ocean of his vast mother he sailed From the distant cave where the threads of men's lives are spun, Then measured, and then cut short By the Three Fatal Sisters, intent on their gruesome handcrafts, And the lives of women also are twisted into the strand. And we, the twelve who were later to die by his hand At his father's relentless command, Sailed as well, in the dark frail boats of ourselves Through the turbulent seas of our swollen and sore-footed mothers Who were not royal queens, but a motley and piebald collection, Bought, traded, captured, kidnapped from serfs and strangers. After the nine-month voyage we came to shore, Beached at the same time as he was, struck by the hostile air, Infants when he was an infant, wailing just as he wailed, Helpless as he was helpless, but ten times more helpless as well, For his birth was longed-for and feasted, as our births were not. His mother presented a princeling. Our various mothers Spawned merely, lambed, farrowed, littered, Foaled, whelped and kittened, brooded, hatched out their clutch. We were animal young, to be disposed of at will, Sold, drowned in the well, traded, used, discarded when bloomless. He was fathered; we simply appeared, Like the crocus, the rose, the sparrows endangered in mud. Our lives were twisted in his life; we also were children When he was a child, We were his pets and his toythings, mock sisters, his tiny companions. We grew as he grew, laughed also, ran as he ran, Though sandier, hungrier, sun-speckled, most days meatless. He saw us as rightfully his, for whatever purpose He chose, to tend him and feed him, to wash him, amuse him, Rock him to sleep in the dangerous boats of ourselves. We did not know as we played with him there in the sand On the beach of our rocky goat-island, close by the harbour, That he was foredoomed to swell to our cold-eyed teenaged killer. If we had known that, would we have drowned him back then? Young children are ruthless and selfish: everyone wants to live. Twelve against one, he wouldn't have stood a chance. Would we? In only a minute, when nobody else was looking? Pushed his still-innocent child's head under the water With our own still-innocent childish nursemaid hands, And blamed it on waves. Would we have had it in us? Ask the Three Sisters, spinning their blood-red mazes, Tangling the lives of men and women together. Only they know how events might then have had altered. Only they know our hearts. From us you will get no answer.

But everyone likes dogs," Cassandra protested. "I don't dislike dogs. I just don't want one in my house." "Our house." She braced her elbows on the table and massaged her temples. "I've always had dogs. Pandora and I couldn't have survived our childhood without Napoleon and Josephine. If cleanliness is what worries you, I'll make certain the dog is bathed often, and accidents will be disposed of right away." That drew a grimace from him. "I don't want there to be accidents in the first place. Besides, you'll have more than enough to keep you busy- you won't have time for a pet." "I need a dog." Tom held the propelling pencil between his first and second fingers, and flipped it back and forth to make the ends tap on the table. "Let's look at this logically- you don't really need a dog. You're not a shepherd or a rat catcher. Household dogs serve no useful purpose." "They fetch things," Cassandra pointed out. "You'll have an entire staff of servants to fetch anything you want." "I want a companion who'll go on walks with me, and sit on my lap while I pet him." "You'll have me for that." Cassandra pointed to the contract. "Dog," she insisted. "I'm afraid it's nonnegotiable.

I turned to my side and studied the transparent, palm-sized square plastic case where Ilham used to keep a pet guppy. The death of the guppy had made him disconsolate that he refused to dispose of the deceased fish, or throw it into the rubbish bin. Instead, he left the guppy in its water. The guppy, he said, was a keeper of his innermost secrets; the guppy, like him, was a lonely creature swimming about in its narrow box waiting for its end. After a week, the water turned too murky that he was forced to clean it. When he did, we found out that the guppy had dissolved into nothing but blue slime, no traces of bones whatsoever, and Ilham had cried for hours. After Ilham left, there were times he came into my dreams as nothing but pieces of rotting skeletons connected together, and I would wake up in fright and contemplated whether his soul went to heaven, or if he had degraded like the guppy, diminished into total nothingness.

Such efforts are to be applauded, but the most critical element of wildlife management in twenty-first-century America will be modifying the behavior of the most pervasive species of all. Reducing conflicts between people and wild animals will require controls on human actions: where we build our homes, how we landscape our yards, the way we dispose of our trash and house our pets.

Shoshanne nodded and hurried toward the infirmary as Cayla stooped to bury her fingers in the dense black fur some more, and she grinned to herself in a way that made her look kind of similar to the cat. “You can feel how powerful it is,” she said under her breath. “What does the Master want with these? They must be special in some way.” “Well, he’s already got sphynxes and all manner of creatures at that fortress,” I said with a shrug. “Looks like he’s diversifying. What I don’t understand is how the snatcher got them. I’ve never seen anything like this in Illaria, and the automaton is patrolling just east of Serin. At least, I think he is.” “There’s three, though,” Cayla pointed out as she trailed her hand along a pronged horn. “A pack.” I furrowed my brow. “You think the Master sent them out for an attack?” “I would,” Cayla admitted, and she peeled back the beast’s lip to reveal stark white, eight-inch canines. “If I had these at my disposal, I’d send them out in droves to slaughter my enemies. They’re fantastic, how could you not want to utilize this kind of beast as a means to a gruesome end?” “This is why we can’t have pets,” I sighed as Shoshanne emerged from the infirmary. “We have Ruela,” Cayla chuckled. “She’s not a pet, she’s a weapon,” I countered, “and a damn good one.

Dispose of prescription and over-the-counter medications with care. Flush them down the toilet or place them in a tightly covered outdoor trash container so kids and pets can’t get them.