Pointer Dog Quotes

If all else fails, take a pointer from your dog. Kick some grass over that shit and move on.

MR. DOMBEY’S offices were in a court where there was an old-established stall of choice fruit at the corner: where perambulating merchants, of both sexes, offered for sale at any time between the hours of ten and five, slippers, pocket-books, sponges, dogs’ collars, and Windsor soap; and sometimes a pointer or an oil painting.

If all else fails, take a pointer from your dog. Kick some grass over that shit and move on. -E-card

Ah! you should keep dogs — fine animals — sagacious creatures — dog of my own once — pointer — surprising instinct — out shooting one day — entering inclosure — whistled — dog stopped — whistled again — Ponto — no go; stock still — called him — Ponto, Ponto — wouldn’t move — dog transfixed — staring at a board — looked up, saw an inscription —”Gamekeeper has orders to shoot all dogs found in this inclosure”— wouldn’t pass it — wonderful dog — valuable dog that — very.

While I was at a huge disadvantage, I realized Solo had an advantage here that he didn't have at the local kennel club. Law enforcement handlers don't expect their dogs to get along. Most of their dogs have an edge. Every dog was on lead coming and going; each dog worked separately. The warehouse rang with another warning I would become accustomed to: "Dog in!" or "Dog out!" For me, that warning was a comfort. A standardization of practice that would benefit me greatly. Working Solo, I wouldn't have to keep my eyes peeled for a shorthaired pointer to come bounding over off lead. Soon enough, Solo realized the same thing: With cops and Crown Vics around, he started to ignore sharp barks and growls and dog-permeated air. I didn't have to apologize for his personality. To the police K9 handlers, Solo wasn't a sociopath. He didn't even qualify as a jackass.

ever. Amen. Thank God for self-help books. No wonder the business is booming. It reminds me of junior high school, where everybody was afraid of the really cool kids because they knew the latest, most potent putdowns, and were not afraid to use them. Dah! But there must be another reason that one of the best-selling books in the history of the world is Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus by John Gray. Could it be that our culture is oh so eager for a quick fix? What a relief it must be for some people to think “Oh, that’s why we fight like cats and dogs, it is because he’s from Mars and I am from Venus. I thought it was just because we’re messed up in the head.” Can you imagine Calvin Consumer’s excitement and relief to get the video on “The Secret to her Sexual Satisfaction” with Dr. GraySpot, a picture chart, a big pointer, and an X marking the spot. Could that “G” be for “giggle” rather than Dr. “Graffenberg?” Perhaps we are always looking for the secret, the gold mine, the G-spot because we are afraid of the real G-word: Growth—and the energy it requires of us. I am worried that just becoming more educated or well-read is chopping at the leaves of ignorance but is not cutting at the roots. Take my own example: I used to be a lowly busboy at 12 East Restaurant in Florida. One Christmas Eve the manager fired me for eating on the job. As I slunk away I muttered under my breath, “Scrooge!” Years later, after obtaining a Masters Degree in Psychology and getting a California license to practice psychotherapy, I was fired by the clinical director of a psychiatric institute for being unorthodox. This time I knew just what to say. This time I was much more assertive and articulate. As I left I told the director “You obviously have a narcissistic pseudo-neurotic paranoia of anything that does not fit your myopic Procrustean paradigm.” Thank God for higher education. No wonder colleges are packed. What if there was a language designed not to put down or control each other, but nurture and release each other to grow? What if you could develop a consciousness of expressing your feelings and needs fully and completely without having any intention of blaming, attacking, intimidating, begging, punishing, coercing or disrespecting the other person? What if there was a language that kept us focused in the present, and prevented us from speaking like moralistic mini-gods? There is: The name of one such language is Nonviolent Communication. Marshall Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication provides a wealth of simple principles and effective techniques to maintain a laser focus on the human heart and innocent child within the other person, even when they have lost contact with that part of themselves. You know how it is when you are hurt or scared: suddenly you become cold and critical, or aloof and analytical. Would it not be wonderful if someone could see through the mask, and warmly meet your need for understanding or reassurance? What I am presenting are some tools for staying locked onto the other person’s humanness, even when they have become an alien monster. Remember that episode of Star Trek where Captain Kirk was turned into a Klingon, and Bones was freaking out? (I felt sorry for Bones because I’ve had friends turn into Cling-ons too.) But then Spock, in his cool, Vulcan way, performed a mind meld to determine that James T. Kirk was trapped inside the alien form. And finally Scotty was able to put some dilithium crystals into his phaser and destroy the alien cloaking device, freeing the captain from his Klingon form. Oh, how I wish that, in my youth or childhood,

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

Setters,” he was saying, “are usually supposed to be the keenest and pointers the strongest, but in my opinion it all depends on the partic’lar dog. Nowadays I hear a good deal about the pointer bein’ the best dog, and I’ve owned some good ones myself. There’s nothing prettier than strong, wiry pointer doublin’ and turnin’ in the brush and freezin’ to a steady point. But for my own part, give me a well-bred Llewellyn setter; they’re the humanist dog they is. They’ve got the bird sense, too. Oh, you can’t beat ‘em.

Logic evolved as a means of defending our passions in an argument. Most people reason to defend their position, not to change their minds or advance their understanding. “When it comes to sensational ideas, we’re like cats chasing a laser pointer. We’ll pounce on anything that’s shiny and new. Only unlike a cat, we can actually catch hold of these ideas. Then we turn and become like a dog with a bone, defending our newfound prize as though it were sacred. “Look at the madness during the pandemic. No one wants to be sick. No one wants to suffer. No one wants to die in agony. No one starts out as an anti-vaxxer, but there goes the red dot of that goddamn laser pointer. It’s racing along the carpet. Gotta chase it! “Somewhere along the line, there will be some vague point that appeals to our vanity, to the passions we already hold—and that’s all that’s needed to believe a lie. We become convinced against all logic to the contrary. We throw out any logic we don’t like. We have to. We have to justify the madness—not the logic, the passion! And the irony is, the smarter we think we are, the easier it is to be fooled. “We overestimate our own intelligence when it’s largely irrelevant. You don’t need a blistering IQ to drive a car, do the laundry, play golf or walk the dog. Regardless of how smart we think we are, we rarely use our intelligence to its full potential. And it makes no difference anyway. Our collective intelligence is far more important than any one individual’s intelligence. It doesn’t matter how smart someone is, anyone can own an iPhone, but no one person can build one from scratch.

Every morning at 8:27, the estate’s two German shorthair pointers imbibed some secret elixir of garlic and hydrochloric acid. Every morning at 8:30, they were released from their pen to pee on everything we’d stupidly left outside the night before, including our dogs, who were probably also violated by the male but couldn’t tell us.

And the way he follows you around all the time. It's like he's been taking pointers from your dog.

Even when breathing out, a dog is still sucking air in. In one experiment, an English pointer (who was curiously named Sir Satan) created an uninterrupted inward airstream for 40 seconds, despite exhaling 30 times during that period.

However, pointers, as a rule, will train up quicker, are less likely to show temperament, and may work better in warm weather if water is scares; while setters are more likely to work better if the going is wet, take cover more courageously, and prove more nearly “one man” dogs. But burrs never the pointers … you pick your own dog!

But, of all Albert’s fine service to me, I believe that most appreciated was the morning coffee. Around daylight, or thereabouts, the fifty or more pointers and setters kenneled not too far beyond my open window would start setting up their chorus. In a very short while, they’d be really opening up full swing. And I liked that, too. At first, it merely served as a reminder¬—after a comfortable night—that day was dawning in great quail country, and there were some of America’s finest bird dogs to run—and excellent horses to ride.

And the job was done, too, boys – for Old Frank. He had stuck to that point all afternoon – all through that snow – all the while we had been looking for him – while I had been taking Jack to the farmer’s and coming back my self – through the cold and the sleet and the wind and the ice – he had held the point, true as the warrior that he was, the grandest, gamest, noblest of his breed that I have ever known.

They don’t shoot ground game in his neck of the woods and the last thing he wanted was a dog which would take off after a gopher or a squirrel. And he said that bum-punching quail over pointers was no more interesting than shooting clays down-the-line – the same going-away bird every time.

He came home quite gloomy, though, because the pointers were winning all down the line, ‘ ‘ Ell-ooping all over the country like a lot of gray’ounds,’ is what he told me. ‘Don’t they find birds?’ I asked, and I gathered from what he said that when a pointer stumbled over a bevy, he stopped in astonishment.

People think that dogs get the jobs because of their noses. They’re supposed to be super sniffers, right? And compared to humans they are. But that’s not the real reason. The real reason is because dogs will do what you tell them to do. A hearty “Good boy!” and a treat is all you need to get a dog to follow instructions. They’re so easy. Cats? Yeah, no. We’re gonna do what we’re gonna do. We have our pride. Unless you pull out that laser pointer. That’s just not playing fair. I don’t know why we can’t resist chasing the little red dot, but it’s magic. Some alien technology that

We rested a couple of hours at noon for lunch, and the afternoon's sport was simply a repetition of the morning's, except that we had but one dog to work with; for shortly after mid-day the stub-tail pointer, for his sins, encountered a skunk, with which he waged prompt and valiant battle—thereby rendering himself, for the balance of the time, wholly useless as a servant and highly offensive as a companion.

A man in jester’s motley stepped forward and warmed up the audience. He explained that over the centuries there had been many versions of the Punch and Judy show, but today, for our education and our entertainment, the renowned Professor Phillip Pointer would perform The Tragical Comedy, or Comical Tragedy, of Punch and Judy as told to John Payne Collier by Giovanni Piccini in 1827. The story started with Punch being bitten on the nose by Toby the dog.

Saint Belfort’s Wood by Stewart Stafford As I rambled through Saint Belfort’s Wood, The Entrepreneurial Skag Lepus accosted me, “I can get you hopped-up whether you want it or not,” he boasted, Gesturing to a commune of defrocked Praying Mantises nearby. They stood transfixed like Pointer dogs, As they tried cleaning their antennae, Failing miserably in the attempt, Their eyes swirling cascades of hopelessness. “You talk too much for a rabbit,” I replied, My eyes moving over his tweed waistcoat, “I’m a hare, actually,” he said, taking umbrage, “Then you, sir, are a follicular f-f-falsity!” I shouted. I turned on my heel and walked away, “Don’t look a gift hare in the mouth!” he called after me, “I have and only see two buck teeth!” I responded, The hare huffed and hopped away to find another hophead. © 2021, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Why hunt birds? The simple answer is that nothing, absolutely nothing, beats watching a pair of pointers cover a picturesque piece of ground in a workmanlike manner and slamming on brakes to a stylish point. Or an even better answer might be that nothing beats admiring your pointers as they precisely handle a running covey. This tableau, immediately followed by the feel of a fine double shotgun brought into play and accompanied by the thunderous sound of the covey flushing, is an experience without equal. There may be a few things I haven't tried, but nothing I have attempted, seen, or read about even comes close. - Why Hunt Birds? By Dr. Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr

When speed, range, and stamina are aligned with brilliant bird sense and handling response, the yardstick of bird dog greatnes, has been applied by judgment. But what counts with the average chap is his dog’s reaction to such a code of training and companionship. It, understanding of what they are out to enjoy together. In so many words, mutual enjoyment of a day’s gunning. My taste, and I'll wager that of many Bob Whiters reading this, rung to a big, hard-bitten pointer or setter—great-chested, high-headed, long-striding—from a well-bred strain of country giants with verve, hardihood, and courage that blazes the sedge and leaves smoke in the hollows. Fellows not overly friendly but with a magnificent sense of understanding and loyalty. Fellows that stride up to a weed patch, trusting high noses for an instant diagnosis. Dogs that spared pace across pastures and then turned loose like coiled springs when their pads regripped bird country. Dogs that cast in reluctantly at nightfall, with vinegar enough left to fight like wildcats of shake a few curs along the quarter's lane. - Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham

Jim said his only objection to setters for Florida is not their long hair—because that soon thins out down there—but that they insist on “winding” birds, whereas the pointers learn to trail them. - Florida Bobs By Horace Lytle

For a covey dog, give me a pointer—stamina, dash, derring-do. For a singles dog, give me a setter—patience, thoroughness, precision. Just one man’s experience, and if it doesn’t jibe with yours don’t sue me for it. - The Old Maid By Havilah Babcock

There are, however, marked differences between the two greats of bird dogs that have long been generally recognized; and these differences may influence the choice of other men more than my own. The pointer was the first dog ever used to point game, and he seems to be built strictly for business. His place is in the field. When well broken he is almost unbelievably staunch. One brace of English pointers once stood point for an hour and twenty minutes, while a single English pointer stood game for six hours. A pointer has been known to have been frozen to death while on the point. But for all practical purposes the setter is just as staunch. A setter of mine once found a covey of quail at dusk, gone to roost in tall grass. I suppose I must have searched and called for half an hour before the dog was discovered, statued, with the whole covey just a few inches off his nose. The setter is the better companion; he is more gentle, affectionate, and demonstrative. The pointer always looks stripped for action; he does his work with admirable efficiency, and with a grim determination that is in high contrast to the setter’s ease and grace. Of the two, the pointer is the more independent and needs less encouragement. The pointer works as if it were his business to work; the setter as if wanting to please a watching master. The setter seems to work with his master; the pointer works for him. And each can do his work in a way to give eternal joy to the eye and the heart of a sportsman.

It is generally conceded that the pointer, being far back probably of hound strain, is superior in the power of scenting to the setter, likely springs anciently from dogs akin to spaniels. However it may be, these two great breeds have some very clearly marked distinctions: the pointer is all for business, is a slashing, tireless, bold, soldierly sort of a dog; the setter is far gentler, more easily handled, is sensitive, and is so anxious to please as to be positively obliging. it strikes me that, in the field, there is not a great deal of choice; but at home the setter is the better dog to keep. As a matter of fact, the setter appears to be distinguished by having what we call good manners; the pointer s usually a rough-and-ready customer, milling through his work in arrogant style; the setter is deferential, dainty, and I think it is not too much to say that this grand breed of dogs has in it a high artistic strain. Men who know and love setters understand what I mean.

I remember an old English sporting print showing a slashing pointer with a rabbit in his mouth halting in the act of retrieving to stand a grouse. I have seen the same thing happen, and perhaps, one incident a little superior to it. One day my pointer Prince was bringing a rabbit that I had shot when he suddenly stopped. I did not know just how to account for his procedure, for he warily laid the rabbit down in the grass, then lifted his head, glanced significantly at me, and steadied to a point. His behavior appeared to indicate that he was laying aside inferior game to give the covey under his nose his undivided attention.

Was it yesterday that Vaughn’s pointer went down the river and out over the bar into the storm tossed Atlantic after a broken winged shelldrake? I remember how we watched him from the shore until his head was but a mere speck in the distance, and then that, too, disappeared. Then, because the wind and tide set toward the east, we went a mile upriver to the bridge, crossed it and came back to the beach on the other side, hoping against hope that we might find his body. I remember how, as we stood gazing out over that welter of wind-driven water, Vaughn’s sudden, exultant shout rang out. “By God! There’s my dog!” And there he was, fighting his way in through the breakers, with the shelldrake, still alive, in his mouth. No, that was not yesterday, for I have not seen Vaughn for more than twenty-five years.

Setters were my first love and pointers are my present amours, but my observation leads me to believe there is no marked difference between the good ones of either breed. Under present hunting conditions I would train my young dog to follow a trail until the bird was found and flushed. Just so long as he was following scent I would stay with him and give him my moral support, and we would find that bird if it took the rest of the day to do it. I would teach him by example that finding birds was his job and that I would stay with him from soup to nuts.

Jules was in some pretty fancy company, all right. Running alongside him that day were two solid, wide-ranging Pointers: a liver and white Rip Rap dog and a slippery lemon Elhew bitch Blume swore by. Rounding out the field were his pride and joy, a breath-taking English setter he called Babe and another Brittany, one almost twice the size of my little Jules. We hadn't gone far, perhaps only a few hundred yards when Jules dropped out of sight. Blume’s highly esteemed dog trainer/handler was the first to locate him. “Your dog is down over here," Joe cryptically announced, his condescension purposefully unmasked, “Maybe he’s got a rabbit!” “Oh boy; now they’re reading my mind,” I thought to myself. As I topped the little rise that stretched before us, a beautiful composition began to unfold. Jules hung rock solid on the far side of a naked wash, his back foot still raised as if frozen in mid-stride, his head faced forward while his eyes were locked in hard to the left. Somewhere under that big cottonwood log and brush top breathed game — A bunny perhaps! One by one, each of the other dogs arrived: first, the Setter with her beautiful, white flowing flag, then the cat walking Brittany, and finally, the wide running Pointers with their twelve-o’clock high tails. Each, honoring Jules’ find, fell into his own exquisite cast iron point, until finally the painting was complete. Slowly we walked in amongst them. At the last possible moment, Blume turned to me, and with a little smile, kicked the old cottonwood log. The explosion was startling even for hunters who'd been there many, many times before. It seemed like every quail in West Texas was huddled up under that log.