Pugs Quotes

Why is it that everyone else can look like they’re part of a zombie hunting party, but I still have to worry about fashion?” He won’t stop snickering. “You look like a leopard-spotted Shar-Pei.” I think those are the little pug-like dogs drowning in massive folds of skin. “You’re scarring me, you know. It could haunt me for the rest of my life to be called a wrinkly little dog at the tender age of seventeen.” “Yup. A sensitive girl. That just defines you, Penryn.

Cross a small dog with a pig and you have a pug.

Lindsay calls them the Pugs: pretty from far away, ugly up close.

The house came with a set of Pugs, which are sort of a cross between Peter Lorre and a bratwurst.

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows, Are proud and implacable, passionate foes; It is always the same, wherever one goes. And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say that they do not like fighting, will often display Every symptom of wanting to join in the fray. And they Bark bark bark bark bark bark Until you can hear them all over the park.

Pugs Not Drugs

Immortality, power, dominance, all are illusions. Don’t you see? We are simply pawns in a game beyond our understanding.’ Pug

In my lap I had my dear little pug, the smell of whose ears will always be sweeter to me than all the perfumes of Araby and the scent of heliotrope combined.

You know," Gabe said, "Lady Penelope might actually like some of this artwork. Take a bit more care." Ash retrieved the small, oval frame from the floor. It held a phenomenally ugly sketch of a cross-eyed, squished-face pug. "This is hideous." "Yes," Chase agreed. "It's probably her favorite.

However, the majority of women are neither harlots nor courtesans; nor do they sit clasping pug dogs to dusty velvet all through the summer afternoon. But what do they do then? and there came to my mind’s eye one of those long streets somewhere south of the river whose infinite rows are innumerably populated. With the eye of the imagination I saw a very ancient lady crossing the street on the arm of a middle-aged woman, her daughter, perhaps, both so respectably booted and furred that their dressing in the afternoon must be a ritual, and the clothes themselves put away in cupboards with camphor, year after year, throughout the summer months. They cross the road when the lamps are being lit (for the dusk is their favourite hour), as they must have done year after year. The elder is close on eighty; but if one asked her what her life has meant to her, she would say that she remembered the streets lit for the battle of Balaclava, or had heard the guns fire in Hyde Park for the birth of King Edward the Seventh. And if one asked her, longing to pin down the moment with date and season, but what were you doing on the fifth of April 1868, or the second of November 1875, she would look vague and say that she could remember nothing. For all the dinners are cooked; the plates and cups washed; the children sent to school and gone out into the world. Nothing remains of it all. All has vanished. No biography or history has a word to say about it. And the novels, without meaning to, inevitably lie. All these infinitely obscure lives remain to be recorded, I said, addressing Mary Carmichael as if she were present; and went on in thought through the streets of London feeling in imagination the pressure of dumbness, the accumulation of unrecorded life, whether from the women at the street corners with their arms akimbo, and the rings embedded in their fat swollen fingers, talking with a gesticulation like the swing of Shakespeare’s words; or from the violet-sellers and match-sellers and old crones stationed under doorways; or from drifting girls whose faces, like waves in sun and cloud, signal the coming of men and women and the flickering lights of shop windows. All that you will have to explore, I said to Mary Carmichael, holding your torch firm in your hand.

However, the majority of women are neither harlots nor courtesans; nor do they sit clasping pug dogs to dusty velvet all through the summer afternoon.

As a wise Pug once said, all you need is love, kibble and a de-worming tablet every three to six months.

I once heard a stranger in agitated conversation with her pug: And I suppose it's all my fault again, isn't it? At which, I swear, the dog rolled its eyes.

pug-mark,

Eventual, as Pug used to say. When he wanted to say something was really good, he's never say it was awesome, like most people do; he'd say it was eventual. How funny is that? The old Pugmeister. I wonder how he's doing.

You are a pug! Master of the universe! King of the curly tails! You can do anything! You can lick your own nose, for goodness sake.

By the piss of Satan, pug, your sauce is dangerous!

A stampede of footsteps came pounding up, accompanied by the yodeling howls of two very excited pugs. They loved drama like blonde haired sorority sisters.

I didn't know my boss likes pugs so much so one time we were talking about dogs, I said pugs are really, really ugly. She followed that sentence with, "I have two pugs.

Seen on her own, the woman was not so remarkable. Tall, angular, aquiline features, with the close-cropped hair which was fashionably called an Eton crop, he seemed to remember, in his mother's day, and about her person the stamp of that particular generation. She would be in her middle sixties, he supposed, the masculine shirt with collar and tie, sports jacket, grey tweed skirt coming to mid-calf. Grey stockings and laced black shoes. He had seen the type on golf courses and at dog shows - invariably showing not sporting breeds but pugs - and if you came across them at a party in somebody's house they were quicker on the draw with a cigarette lighter than he was himself, a mere male, with pocket matches. The general belief that they kept house with a more feminine, fluffy companion was not always true. Frequently they boasted, and adored, a golfing husband. ("Don't Look Now")

We adopted a pug with cancer and changed his name from Lucas to Lulu Guinness. I’m in the process of turning him gay by telling him he’s gay every morning. It’s not working, but it gives me a purpose.

He's a pug and he always looks that way.

But were we so different, my pug and I?

He’s what, in my alley days in Dublin, we would have called a fug — cross between a fuck and a pug. Lots of mouth and no balls.

Can I admit I’m a little freaked out that Socrates only has one name? I know that’s how it was done in those days, but it bugs me. I can’t tell if it’s his last name or his first name or what. And it can’t be shortened—except to Sock, which is completely stupid. I want him to have a more familiar name—something laid back and modern, so I can relate to him better. So I stare at the picture in my book of the curly-bearded guy with the pug nose, and by the end of study hall, I name him Frank. Frank Socrates. Makes him more huggable.

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

After

found Mr. Waterbrook to be a middle-aged gentleman, with a short throat, and a good deal of shirt-collar, who only wanted a black nose to be the portrait of a pug-dog.

We'll teach it that the humblest insect measuring out its miserable days by the pug-wuggery and skull duggery of the old Slug of Time is worth far more than this defecating bubble!

She did not like her name. It was a mean, small name, with a kind of facetious twist, she thought, about its end like the upward curve of a pug dog's tail.

CHUBBY PUGS ARE VERY CUTE. CHUBBYCHUBBYCHUBBY

She wasn’t,” Heather said, crying now. “Pugs are bred to be useless. We have to take her to the vet.

And as anxious as he was to fulfill this vision, Pug knew that musings were rewarded after patient waiting because things always happen for a reason and not before the time is right.

Yet did you know that every dog alive today has a little wolf DNA? Not just huskies, who often look like wolves, but pugs, corgis, poodles? Chuhuahuas - they sometimes act like they still are wolves.

As they walked he glanced sideways and at last asked, "You are the one they call Pug?" If Pug hadn't already been surprised by what they had encountered, he was now openly taken aback. "Yes," he said. "I'd thought you'd be taller," mused the Pantathian.

Girl going past clinging to a young man's arm. Putting up her face like a duck to the moon. Drinking joy. Green in her eyes. Spinal curvature. No chin, mouth like a frog. Young man like a pug. Gazing down at his sweetie with the face of a saint reading the works of God. Hold on, maiden, you've got him. He's your boy. Look out, Puggy, that isn't a maiden you see before you, it's a work of imagination. Nail him, girlie. Nail him to the contract. Fly laddie, fly off with your darling vision before she turns into a frow, who spends all her life thinking of what the neighbours think.

If you would like to imagine the birth of the mighty National Security Agency, please visualize two men in a small room, one with a pug nose, pecking at a typewriter, the other a dandy in a suit and bow tie, smoking a pipe, wondering what his wife was up to at home, and if she was missing him.

He projected confidence and strength and had the air of a person who had it all together. But I thought he looked like an uptight hobo and felt the deep loathing that can sometimes coexist with profound love. I could feel my chest tightening. I stretched across the wide seat and reached for his hand.

Skip ahead,” Georgie said. Petunia was wet and splotched with blood. The thing in her mouth was moving. Oh, God, she’s eating it. “She’s eating the puppies!” Heather shrieked. She was leaning behind Georgie holding a stack of towels and three bottled waters. “She’s not eating it,” pizza girl said, putting her hand on Heather’s arm. She held up her phone so they both could see. “It’s in its sac. They’re born in sacs, and the mom chews them out. It’s a good sign that she’s chewing them free. It says that pugs are notoriously bad mothers. If she didn’t do it, we’d have to.” “We’d have to chew them out?” Georgie asked.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken, unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years. She had been almost fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.

Today our home was destroyed by fire. The children are grieving and shaken, but Paul and I are so grateful for family, friends, and strangers who have come to our aid. We have lost “everything” but feel rich and free. I climbed into bed next to Paul, who was already asleep. I looked up into the darkness. Everything had changed. Who could believe it? I thought of the children—safe and so close—of Jack at the foot of our bed, and Paul there beside me. Everything had changed, and anything that mattered remained.

Were you locked in your room?" enquired Sir Richard. "Oh no! I daresay I should have been if Aunt had guessed what I meant to do, but she would never think of such a thing." "Then--forgive my curiosity!--why did you climb out of the window?" asked Sir Richard. "Oh, that was on account of Pug!" replied Pen sunnily. "Pug?" "Yes, a horrid little creature! He sleeps in a basket in the hall, and he always yaps if he thinks one is going out. That would have awakened Aunt Almeria. There was nothing else I could do." Sir Richard regarded her with a lurking smile. "Naturally not. Do you know, Pen, I owe you a debt of gratitude?" "Oh!" she said again. "Do you mean that I don't behave as a delicately bred femaile should?" "That is one way of putting it, certainly." "It is the way Aunt Almeria puts it." "She would, of course." "I am afraid," confessed Pen, "that I am not very well-behaved. Aunt says that I had a lamentable upbringing, because my father treated me as though I had been a boy. I ought to have been, you understand." "I cannot agree with you," said Sir Richard. "As a boy you would have been in no way remarkable; as a female, believe me, you are unique." She flushed to the roots of her hair. "I think that is a compliment." "It is," Sir Richard said, amused. "Well, I wasn't sure, because I am not out yet, and I do not know any men except my uncle and Fred, and they don't pay compliments. That is to say, not like that.

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Train those around you well, Pug. Make them powerful, but make them loving, generous men and women as well.

Tug the pug? Wax his ax? Wobble his knob? “Did you guys hold a Who Can Come Up with the Worst Euphemism contest at some point and not invite me?” he called up

It feels like someone’s using a tennis ball machine to fire starving pug dogs at you.

But I guess Kat told you that. Just now,” she added with a smirk. Why oh why were my friends torturing me like this?

but his cauliflower ears and broken nose made him look like a slightly demented pug.

In the end, the end of a life only matters to friends, family, and other folks you used to know,” the pug whimpers miserably. “For everyone else, it’s just another end.

That’s my sister. Abbie, I mean. Not the pug.

precision in gardens was too much like turning a wolf on the prowl into a pug with an embroidered ruffle for a collar. She much preferred the wolf.

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

I let my anger consume me.” “It’s understandable,” she said. “It may be understandable,” replied Pug, “but it is no more forgivable for being understandable.

The very word “insect” is a combination of two ancient Greek words: “in,” meaning “a,” and “sect,” meaning “repulsive little creature.” Thus not only are spiders insects but so are crabs, jellyfish, the late Truman Capote, bats, clams, olives and those unfortunate little dogs, “pugs,” I believe they are called, that appear to have been struck repeatedly in the face with a heavy, flat object such as the Oxford English Dictionary.

Her mom had turned Georgie’s childhood bedroom into the pug trophy room as soon as she graduated from high school—which was irritating because Georgie didn’t actually move out of the house until she graduated from college.

Fanchon, 69 years of age, has been hanged 6 times in effigy, and has committed all imaginable crimes; she has a squint, and is pug-nosed, short, fat, with no forehead and only 2 teeth; an erysipelas covers her arse, a bunch of haemorrhoids hangs from her arsehole, a canker devours her vagina, she has a burnt thigh and a cancer eating away at her breast; she is always drunk, vomits, farts and shits all over the place and at any time without even noticing.

My CB handle is Flaming Chick, but name’s Melba—dry and crisp like the toast. Meet my co-pilot, Spark Pug,” she snorted, “Most people walk their dogs, but he’s so old I take him out for a stand . . . it takes all he’s got to lift his leg.

This game still had its old ritual fascination for Pug; he was following it tensely, smoking a cigar. Once his nostalgia had been keen for the tough youthful combat on the grass, the slamming of bodies, the tricky well-drilled plays, above all for the rare moments of breaking free and sprinting down the field, dodging one man and another with the stands around him a roaring sea of voices. Nothing in his life had since been quite like it. But long ago that nostalgia had departed; those grooves of memory had worn out. To think that lads much younger than his own two sons were out on that chilly field in Philadelphia now, made Victor Henry feel that he had led a very long, multilayered existence, and was now almost a living mummy. “Pug!

So I brought them into the room with the bodies and I was all, Let me introduce you to … Ulysses. Let me introduce you to … Titania. He thought about it and added, I better say that it was Titania from Midsummer, Shakespeare, but Ulysses was for a dog my nana had when I was a child. I worshipped that dog. He was the bravest dog I’d ever met. Half Chihuahua, half pug. Nan called him Ulysses S. Grunt. Died from eating too much pizza. The dog, I mean. Nan died of pneumonia when I was a teenager.

They walked on into the dark and they slept like dogs in the sand and had been sleeping so when something black flapped up out of the night ground and perched on Sproule's chest. Fine fingerbones stayed the leather wings with which it steadied as it walked upon him. A wrinkled pug face, small and vicious, bare lips crimped in a horrible smile and teeth pale blue in the starlight. It leaned to him. It crafted in his neck two narrow grooves and folding its wings over him it began to drink his blood. Not soft enough. He woke, put up a hand. He shrieked and the bloodbat flailed and sat back upon his chest and righted itself again and hissed and clicked its teeth. The kid was up and had seized a rock but the bat sprang away and vanished in the dark. Sproule was clawing at his neck and he was gibbering hysterically and when he saw the kid standing there looking down at him he held out to him his bloodied hands as if in accusation and then clapped them to his ears and cried out what it seemed he himself would not hear, a howl of such outrage as to stitch a caesura in the pulsebeat of the world. But the kid only spat into the darkness of the space between them. I know your kind, he said. What's wrong with you is wrong all the way through you.

All I have to do is just look into a dog’s eyes. The eyes of a Saint Bernard, an English mastiff, a shar-pei, a Jack Russell terrier, a French bulldog, a corgi, a pug. A lot of the time I think all you have to do is look into any dog’s eyes, and there’ll you’ll find honesty; there, I think so much of the time, you’ll find the truth.

It is hard for a writer to call an editor great, because it is natural for him to think of the editor as a writer manqué. It is like asking a thief to approve a fence, or a fighter to speak highly of a manager. “Fighters are sincere,” a fellow with the old pug’s syndrome said to me at a bar once as head wobbled and the hand that held his shot glass shook. “Managers are pimps, they sell our blood.” In the newspaper trade, confirmed reporters think confirmed editors are mediocrities who took the easy way out. These attitudes mark an excess of vanity coupled with a lack of imagination; it never occurs to a writer that anybody could have wanted to be anything else.

Every man who has bought a slave today must have his money back. Pug, bring out your takings to the last minim.” (A minim is the fortieth part of a crescent.) “Does your good Majesty mean to beggar me?” whined Pug. “You have lived on broken hearts all your life,” said Caspian, “and if you are beggared, it is better to be a beggar than a slave.

Of course, people find beauty in things without wet noses, too. But there is something unique about the ways in which we fall in love with animals. Unwieldy dogs and minuscule dogs and long-haired and sleek dogs, snoring Saint Bernards, asthmatic pugs, unfolding shar-peis, and depressed-looking basset hounds - each with devoted fans. Bird-watchers spend frigid mornings scanning skies and scrub for the feathered objects of their fascination. Cat lovers display an intensity lacking - thank goodness - in most human relationships. Children’s books are constellated with rabbits and mice and bears and caterpillars, not to mention spiders, crickets, and alligators. Nobody ever had a plush toy shaped like a rock, and when the most enthusiastic stamp collector refers to loving stamps, it is an altogether different kind of affection.

Aun en el caso de las razas del perro doméstico del mundo entero, que admito que descienden de diversas especies salvajes, no puede dudarse que ha habido una cantidad inmensa de variaciones hereditarias, pues ¿quién creerá que animales que se pareciesen mucho al galgo italiano, al bloodhound, al bull-dog, al pug-dog o al spaniel Blenheim, etc. -tan distintos de todos los cánidos salvajes- existieron alguna vez en estado natural?

In Corrie’s beloved book The Hiding Place, she tells of how being led to join Betsie in the kitchen had protected her from being struck by a shard of shrapnel that fell onto her pillow in her bedroom during a night of bombings. In response to Corrie’s “if I hadn’t heard you in the kitchen . . .,” Betsie said, “There are no ‘ifs’ in God’s world. And no places that are safer than other places. The center of His will is our only safety—Oh Corrie, let us pray that we may always know it!” This

Being diplomatic, I’d say Kipps was a slightly built young man in his early twenties, with close-cut reddish hair and a narrow, freckled face. Being undiplomatic (but more precise), I’d say he’s a pint-sized, pug-nosed, carrot-topped inadequate with a chip the size of Big Ben on his weedy shoulder. A sneer on legs. A malevolent buffoon. He’s too old to be any good with ghosts, but that doesn’t stop him wearing the blingiest rapier you’ll ever see, weighed down to the pommel with cheap paste jewels.

And I think, if nothing else, I can deny Elizabeth the victory of the death of all her cousins...and I think I am damned if I am going to spare Elizabeth the problem of dealing with three surviving heirs. I am Jane Grey's sister - they are calling her the first Protestant Martyr - I am not going to slip away in silence; she did not. "Learn you to die!" does not mean lie down like Jo the pug, with your paw over your nose, and give up. "Learn you to die!" means consider how your death is meaningful, as your life is meaningful.

What is it, Georgie? she said. "See if poor Lucia can help." "Well, said Georgie. "You know Pug?" "That mangy little thing of Lady Ambermere's? said Lucia. "Yes. Pug died. I don't know what of--" "Cream, I should think," said Lucia. "And cake." "Well it may have been. Anyhow, Lady Ambermere had him stuffed, and while I was out this morning, she left him in a glass case at my house, as a present for the Museum. There is lying on a blue cushion, with one ear cocked, and a great watery eye, and the end of his horrid tongue between his lips.

A little jealousy will work wonders with that boy: he has been too sure of you! I must tell you, my love, that these Verelsts are all the same! Like Pug there! Let no one seem to wish to touch his bone, and ten to one he will not look at it. Lay but a finger on it, and all at once he knows that there is nothing he wants more in the world, and he will snarl, and show his teeth, and stand guard over it with all his bristles on end! I am determined that if Anthony comes to look for you, he shall find you living in tolerable comfort without him.

But soon Flush became aware of the more profound differences that distinguish Pisa—it was in Pisa that they were now settled—from London. The dogs were different. In London he could scarcely trot round to the pillar-box without meeting some pug dog, retriever, bulldog, mastiff, collie, Newfoundland, St. Bernard, fox terrier or one of the seven famous families of the Spaniel tribe. To each he gave a different name, and to each a different rank. But here in Pisa, though dogs abounded, there were no ranks; all—could it be possible?—were mongrels. As far as he could see, they were dogs merely—grey dogs, yellow dogs, brindled dogs, spotted dogs; but it was impossible to detect a single spaniel, collie, retriever or mastiff among them. Had the Kennel Club, then, no jurisdiction in Italy? Was the Spaniel Club unknown? Was there no law which decreed death to the topknot, which cherished the curled ear, protected the feathered foot, and insisted absolutely that the brow must be domed but not pointed? Apparently not. Flush felt himself like a prince in exile. He was the sole aristocrat among a crowd of canaille. He was the only pure-bred cocker spaniel in the whole of Pisa.

Fear holds us and binds us and keeps us from growing, Nicholas.’ Pug’s voice took on an insistent quality. ‘It kills a small piece of us each day. It holds us to what we know and keeps us from what’s possible, and it is our worst enemy. Fear doesn’t announce itself; it’s disguised, and it’s subtle. It’s choosing the safe course; most of us feel we have “rational” reasons to avoid taking risks.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘The brave man is not the one without fear but the one who does what he must despite being afraid. To succeed, you must be willing to risk total failure; you must learn this.

But where is my other friend?” “Oh him?” said Pug. “Oh take him and welcome. Glad to have him off my hands. I’ve never seen such a drug in the market in all my born days. Priced him at five crescents in the end and even so nobody’d have him. Threw him in free with other lots and still no one would have him. Wouldn’t touch him. Wouldn’t look at him. Tacks, bring out Sulky.” Thus Eustace was produced, and sulky he certainly looked; for though no one would want to be sold as a slave, it is perhaps even more galling to be a sort of utility slave whom no one will buy. He walked up to Caspian and said, “I see. As usual. Been enjoying yourself somewhere while the rest of us were prisoners. I suppose you haven’t even found out about the British Consul. Of course not.

коли проходить орґія, я почуваю, що тепер знаю й люблю її. І раз питаюся її: що таке любов? Вона відповідає: це те, коли ніщо не існує, окрім його. Значить, вона ще не любить мене. І знов згодом задаю їй те саме питання. Вона каже: любов — це страх загубити. Ні, й тепер вона ще не знає, що таке любов. І от, нарешті, вона сама каже мені: «Як дивно: я люблю світ, я люблю людей так, як ніколи не любила. Від чого ця жалість у мене, і зворушення, і така хороша печаль? Я вже не боюсь загубити тебе, бо це ж неможливо, правда? Ми так вросли одне в одного, що я вже не розумію слова «загубити». Кого загубити?. «Себе?» Тоді я бачу, що вона знає, що таке любов. Тепер ми не можемо ні загубити, ні звязати себе. І тоді ми входимо у світ обновлені, злиті в одному. Тепер ми муж і жона. ... Важна суть, а не форма. Суть же — це співаючі сили, танцююча кров, жадоба за пануванням над усім світом, одважність, нахабність, безмежність юнацтва. А форма все, що хоч: вірші, революція, кохання, верстат. ... Я теж хляпаю його по плечах і, сміючись, одповідаю якоюсь дурницею. Коли сходяться двоє, що хляпають по плечах, то той, що хляпає дужче й певніще, займає пануюче становище. А в другого з'являється запобігливе підхіхікування. ... Між иншим, у мене не перестає що-разу, як бачу її, ворушитись бажання зробити щонебудь таке, щоб умочити цю праведницю в гріх. От як би, наприклад, шикарно одягти її, напоїти, оточити сластолюбними масними пиками й подивитись тоді, що в неї там за сею непорушною шкаралющою святости. Мені чогось раз-у-раз здається, що там повинен сидіти звір. ... Як мало женщині треба для того, щоб стати жінкою: — поспати з мужчиною в однім ліжку. Цього досить!... ... Через що така наївна несправедливість — упадання перед матіррю, що любить свою дитину? Хиба не сама мати повинна дякувати за те, що їй дано любити, дано носити в собі стільки ласки, стільки живої трівоги, гордощів, пестощів, здатности віддати себе на катування? ... ти невірно обґрунтовуєш свої підозріння. Ти не докопуєшся в них правди, а догоджаєш їм. Я маю нахил думати, що ти навіть почуваєш якусь хвору насолоду від них, гірку, болючу… ... Я з досадою стежу за нею й думаю: через що це старі парубки та дівки такі хоробливо охайні? ... В мене знову з'являється бажання струснути цю застиглу незайманість, занепокоїти самовпевнену святість, внести нелад у ці точні рухи, слова, мисочки, статуетки.

They bowed most politely to Caspian and paid him long compliments, all about the fountains of prosperity irrigating the gardens of prudence and virtue--and things like that--but of course what they wanted was the money they had paid. “That is only fair, sirs,” said Caspian. “Every man who has bought a slave today must have his money back. Pug, bring out your takings to the last minim.” (A minim is the fortieth part of a crescent.) “Does your good Majesty mean to beggar me?” whined Pug. “You have lived on broken hearts all your life,” said Caspian, “and if you are beggared, it is better to be a beggar than a slave. But where is my other friend?” “Oh him?” said Pug. “Oh take him and welcome. Glad to have him off my hands. I’ve never seen such a drug in the market in all my born days. Priced him at five crescents in the end and even so nobody’d have him. Threw him in free with other lots and still no one would have him. Wouldn’t touch him. Wouldn’t look at him. Tacks, bring out Sulky.” Thus Eustace was produced, and sulky he certainly looked; for though no one would want to be sold as a slave, it is perhaps even more galling to be a sort of utility slave whom no one will buy.

knew that she was picturing the lonely dogs at the shelter. She felt her own eyes fill up. Lizzie could remember so many times when she had left the shelter at the end of the day feeling so, so sorry for all the dogs she could not take home with her. But then Aunt Amanda shook her head. “Still, I just can’t let Pugsley drive all the other dogs crazy. Did you see him stealing everybody’s toys last time you were here? He kept stashing them over behind the slide. There must have been ten toys over there by the end of the day!” Lizzie nodded. “I saw,” she said. She had also seen Max and another dog, Ruby, sniffing all over, looking for their toys. Mr. Pest was a troublemaker, no doubt about it. But still. Pugsley was just a puppy. And he didn’t know any better because nobody had ever taught him the right way to behave. Maybe she, Lizzie, could help Pugsley become a dog that somebody would be happy to own. “What if I tried to train him a little bit, during the days when I’m here?” she asked Aunt Amanda. Aunt Amanda shook her head. “I think Ken is serious about giving him up,” she said. “Pugsley won’t be coming here anymore.” She put her hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “I know you care,” she said. “So do I. But there’s really nothing we can do. Let’s go see what everybody’s up to. I think it’s time for some outdoor play.” Lizzie tried to smile. She loved taking the dogs outside to the fenced play yard out in back. “Can Pugsley come?” she asked. “Of course!” Aunt Amanda smiled back. “What fun would it be without Mr. Pest?” Then her smile faded. Lizzie knew what Aunt Amanda was thinking. And she agreed. Bowser’s Backyard just would not be the same without Pugsley around. Yes, it would be calmer. But it would not be as much fun. Aunt Amanda was right. “She’s right, isn’t she, Mr. Pest?” Lizzie said, when she found the pug in the nap room. He was quiet for once, curled up with Hoss on the bottom bunk. They looked so cute together! Lizzie sat down for a moment to pat the tiny pug and the gigantic Great Dane. They made such a funny pair! Aunt Amanda had told Lizzie that when she first opened Bowser’s Backyard she thought it would be a good idea to separate the big dogs from the little ones. But the dogs wanted to be together! They whined at the gates that kept them apart until Aunt Amanda gave up and let them all mingle. From then on, big dogs and little dogs wrestled, played, and napped together

As Marlboro Man slid open the huge barn doors and flipped on the enormous lights mounted to the beams, my heart began beating quickly. I couldn’t wait to smell its puppy breath. “Happy wedding,” he said sweetly, leaning against the wall of the barn and motioning toward the center with his eyes. My eyes adjusted to the light…and slowly focused on what was before me. It wasn’t a pug. It wasn’t a diamond or a horse or a shiny gold bangle…or even a blender. It wasn’t a love seat. It wasn’t a lamp. Sitting before me, surrounded by scattered bunches of hay, was a bright green John Deere riding lawn mower--a very large, very green, very mechanical, and very diesel-fueled John Deere riding lawn mower. Literally and figuratively, crickets chirped in the background of the night. And for the hundredth time since our engagement, the reality of the future for which I’d signed up flashed in front of me. I felt a twinge of panic as I saw the tennis bracelet I thought I didn’t want go poof, disappearing completely into the ether. Would this be how presents on the ranch would always be? Does the world of agriculture have a different chart of wedding anniversary presents? Would the first anniversary be paper…or motor oil? Would the second be cotton or Weed Eater string? I would add this to the growing list of things I still needed to figure out.

You did not do my homework assignment for me,” he said, grabbing the collage again and looking it over. “I had insomnia,” I said. “I needed a creative activity.” Marlboro Man looked at me, seemingly unsure of whether to kiss me, thank me…or just tickle me some more. I didn’t give him a chance. Instead I picked up the collage and took Marlboro Man on a tour so he’d be prepared for our appointment. “Here’s a pack of cigarettes,” I said. “Because I used to smoke in college.” “Uh-huh,” he answered. “I knew that.” “And here’s a glass of white wine,” I continued. “Because…I love white wine.” “Yes, I’ve noticed,” Marlboro Man answered. “But…won’t Father Johnson have a problem with that being on there?” “Nah…,” I said. “He’s Episcopalian.” “Got it,” he said. I continued with my collage orientation, pointing out the swatch of my favorite shade of turquoise…the pug…the ballet shoe…the Hershey’s Kiss. He watched and listened intently, prepping himself for Father Johnson’s upcoming grilling. Gradually the earliness of the morning and the cozy warmth of my bedroom got the better of us, and before we knew it we’d sunk into the irresistible softness of my bed, our arms and legs caught in a tangled maze. “I think I love you,” his raspy voice whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear. His arms wrapped even more tightly around my body, swallowing me almost completely.

The Bombay Chronicle asked Mohandas Gandhi what he thought of the fact that the United States was now in the war. It was December 20, 1941. 'I cannot welcome this entry of America,' Gandhi said. 'By her territorial vastness, amazing energy, unrivalled financial status and owing to the composite character of her people she is the one country which could have saved the world from the unthinkable butchery that is going on.' Now, he said, there was no powerful nation left to mediate and bring about the peace that all peoples wanted. 'It is a strange phenomenon,' he said, 'that the human wish is paralysed by the creeping effect of the war fever.' Churchill wrote a memo to the chiefs of staff on the future conduct of the war. 'The burning of Japanese cities by incendiary bombs will bring home in a most effective way to the people of Japan the dangers of the course to which they have committed themselves,' he wrote. It was December 20, 1941. Life Magazine published an article on how to tell a Japanese person from a Chinese person. It was December 22, 1941. Chinese people have finely bridged noses and parchment-yellow skin, and they are relatively tall and slenderly built, the article said. Japanese people, on the other hand, have pug noses and squat builds, betraying their aboriginal ancestry. 'The modern Jap is the descendant of Mongoloids who invaded the Japanese archipelago back in the mists of prehistory, and of the native aborigines who possessed the islands before them, Life explained. The picture next to the article was of the Japanese premier, Hideki Tojo. In the Lodz ghetto, trucks began taking the Gypsies away. They went to Chelmno, the new death camp, where they were killed with exhaust gases and buried. It was just before Christmas 1941.

— Яка ж ця дійсна мораль? — Така, Олександро Михайлівно, яка не потребує ні заповідей, ні людських законів, ні тюрем, ні панів адвокатів; така, на підставі якої мати любить своїх дітей, мужчину тягне до женщини, і навпаки; на підставі якої ми живемо громадою, а не поодиноко, на підставі якої революціонер іде на смертну кару… Хиба є заповідь: «Мати хай любить свою дитину»?! Або: «Забороняється жити поодиноко»?! В таких заповідях немає ніякої потреби, бо це є вищі заповіді, яких нарушення далеко краще, ніж у людських, передбачив вищий закон природи. Там немає присудів «по снисхожденію». Винен і край! ... Уявіть: ви мати, ви маєте діти, частинки вашої істоти, що таємним, дивним способом продовжують ваше життя. Та не тільки ваше, а всього людства. Та це ж непохитний, абсолютний закон природи! Хай загинуть усі людські закони, всі правила, заповіді; хай щезне культура, слово, думка, а цей закон існуватиме, поки буде на світі хоч одна пара людей! І бійтесь нарушити цей закон, Олександро Михайлівно! Життя багато прощає, але цього не прощає ніколи. І ви мусите його виконати! Так, мусите, Олександро Михайлівно! Мусите відкинути дурні моралі і сказати собі: хочу бути матіррю, хочу передати в будуче переданий мені з минулого тисячеліттями святий вогонь. Чи «законний», чи «незаконний», свій, чи чужий, але в мене мусить бути чоловік, вільно вибраний мною, батько моїх дітей, стародавній, споконвічний приятель і товариш мій. От як вам треба говорити! І власне, вам, бо ви можете вибірати, бо ви гарні, розумні, незалежні. ... Що ж таке моральність? Моральність це рожева пудра на законах природи. Шапочка вважає неморальним боронити Кубешку. Але боронити закони сильних і пануючих — річ нормальна й моральна, бо вона санкціонована тисячолітньою верствою пудри — пануючою мораллю. Чоловіка своєї сестри, який служить у банку, де робляться ріжні шахрайські операції, який годується з цих операцій і, мабуть, сам бере в них участь, — вона й обнімає, й цілує. Сотням шахраїв, паразитів, грабіжників, але припудрених їхнім законом, вона подає руку. А одному через щось висловлює огиду та зневагу. Через те припудрені так гаряче й боронять пудру, яка помагає їм тримати дурнів у руках. Моральність — це стіна, яку вивели припудрені між основними законами життя й вищим його проявом — розумом. Увесь моральний поступ людськости є в тому, що люде по камінчику стараються знищити цю свою власну стіну. Але припудрені, з свого боку, дбайливо бережуть її, при чому їм ретельно допомагають дурні, яких вони доять. У моральному розумінні соціялізм є скасування стіни, приведення людини до вищої, природної одности, є поєднання законів природи з розумом. Але з яким трагікомічним старанням багато сучасних соціялістів підтримує цілість стіни припудрених! ... — А що таке «чесність», «нечесність»? Плід людської глупоти, лицемірства й поганого соціяльного ладу… ... Все дурниця: і мораль, і кохання, й життя, є тільки — сам біль. Та ще хиба смерть. Через кілька десятків літ і я, й Шапочка, й міліони чесних і нечесних, розумних і дурних, рабів і панів, усі будемо лежати в землі і гнити. Чи варто ж ради такої коротенької хвилини хвилюватися, соромитись, виправдуватись? Рятуйся, хто може! От єдиний справедливий закон! ... Як це погано, паршивенько, шаблонно: коли мужчину образить кохана жінка, він починає пити й виробляти бешкети; коли жінка ображена, вона зараз же спішить зрадити його з иншим мужчиною.

My goodness, now that is a very stinky Snatch!” I hear Bubbles in the other room, and I shake my head and suppress my giggles. A fat, elderly pug comes barreling down the hallway in my direction, in a custom sweater with black-and-yellow bumblebee stripes. Bubbles is on his heels with what looks like a dryer sheet in each hand. “Snatch. You stop right there, young man,” she says to the dog, who halts and plops down on his wide ass. If he weren’t a boy, I’d say Snatch has childbearing hips, in addition to his desperately horrible moniker. Bubbles, completely unaware of any alternate meaning, named the pup thusly because he has a habit of snatching anything in his reach and running away with it, a favorite game. So Snatch he became, much to my amusement and my parents’ mortification.

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Mrs. Pig and Pugsworth bounced around reenacting what was either the Battle of Gettysburg or an episode of the Kardashians.

The past few years alone had seen several dozen mega-vi posts about how such-and-such “will restore your faith in humanity.” Among the subjects it claimed had restorative powers were pugs, kids, pizza, a hospital for bats, pictures of Jon Hamm’s penis, so-called “Aussie Moments,” and “this man eating a muffin in the background of a Labour MP’s interview.

Well, she was as snug as a bug in a rug with a pug who wanted a hug.

Everything about Vanessa Darvin advertised sexual confidence, which Leo had certainly never held against a woman, except that in this girl it was a bit off-putting. Probably because she looked at him as if she expected him to fall at her feet and start panting like a pug dog with a respiratory ailment.

Maybe he got me one of those two-necklace sets, the ones with the halved hearts, I thought, and he’ll wear one half and I’ll wear the other. I couldn’t exactly picture it, but Marlboro Man had never been above surprising me. Then again, we were walking toward a barn. Maybe it was a piece of furniture for the house we’d been working on--a love seat, perhaps. Oh, wouldn’t that be the most darling of wedding gifts? A love seat? I’ll bet it’s upholstered in cowhide, I thought, or maybe some old western brocade fabric. I’d always loved those fabrics in the old John Wayne movies. Maybe its legs are made of horns! It just had to be furniture. Maybe it was a new bed. A bed on which all the magic of the world would take place, where our children--whether one or six--would be conceived, where the prairie would ignite in an explosion of passion and lust, where… Or maybe it’s a puppy. Oh, yes! That has to be it, I told myself. It’s probably a puppy--a pug, even, in tribute to the first time I broke down and cried in front of him! Oh my gosh--he’s replacing Puggy Sue, I thought. He waited until we were close enough to the wedding, but he doesn’t want the pup to get any bigger before he gives it to me. Oh, Marlboro Man…you may have just zeroed in on what could possibly be the single most romantic thing you ever could have done for me. In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect love gift. A pug would be the perfect bridge between my old world and my new, a permanent and furry reminder of my old life on the golf course. As Marlboro Man slid open the huge barn doors and flipped on the enormous lights mounted to the beams, my heart began beating quickly. I couldn’t wait to smell its puppy breath.

widened

the

re·pug·nant

Yes, they do. That’s what makes them special. That and the smashed face,

run forward and chase Vacuum. I give her my loudest, fiercest bark. Vacuum does not stop. I nip and bite at her, but she keeps going. I chase her around the living room. The three of us run laps until the deafening noise disappears. I stand frozen in the middle of the living room.

Pug thought, that in a trivial way was like the President’s. Some people had it, some didn’t. He himself had none of it. In the Navy the quality was not overly admired. The name for it was “grease.” Men who possessed it had a way of climbing fast; they also had a way of relying upon it, till they got too greasy and slipped.