Puppy Dog Love Quotes

I'm a girl of extremes. When I love something, I'm like a puppy dog (without all the licking). When I'm cranky, I'm a wasp (like a whole hive of 'em). And when I'm angry, I'm a Mother Bear with a predator after her cubs: Dangerous.

I told them he'd be able to get you to go out." Rianne folded her winnings and tucked the bills into her blazer pocket. "Look at him." "He's right here, Ri," Carla murmured, shooting Keenan an apologetic look. "We've tried to teach her manners, but..." She shrugged. "It's like housebreaking a dog. If we'd had her when she was a puppy, maybe." Rianne smacked her on the arm, but she was grinning. "Woof, woof.

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.

Mustang: (snatches puppy) Dog, huh? (pause) I LOVE DOGS! Fuery: Really? You mean it?! Mustang: OF COURSE! Dogs embody loyalty! They follow their master's commands above all else! Be a jerk to them and they don't complain and they never once beg for a paycheck! Trust me, Fuery, they're the great servants of man! (sings) LOYAL CANINE, HOW WE SALUTE THEE!

I'm not alone," said the boy. "I've got a puppy.

The city wasa, wasa, wasa wossname. Thing. Woman. Thass what it was. Woman. Roaring, ancient, centuries old. Strung you along, let you fall in thingy, love, with her, then kicked you inna, inna, thingy. Thingy, in your mouth. Tongue. Tonsils. Teeth. That's what it, she, did. She wasa...thing, you know, lady dog. Puppy. Hen. Bitch.

Elise?" He looked at her with a pleading, puppy-dog expression in his eyes. "Yes?" "I love you.

When I held my new puppy in my arms, I broke down in tears. Because I had fallen in love. Not somewhat in love. Not partly in love. Not in a limited amount. I fell fully in love with a creature I had known for all of nine hours.

A puppy feels like life and love. Their entire bodies are soft—fur, skin, the pads of their feet new and delicate. They radiate warmth in the way science can explain, but it goes further than that. The heat of affection pours out of their eyes and makes their little butts wiggle like crazy as soon as they see a person—they don’t even care who. They’re love, encapsulated.

Why wasn't my time spent helping people instead of a puppy? I don't know and I don't care but at least I saved something.

When Charlie arrived home from his mother's funeral, he was met at the door by two very large very enthusiastic canines, who , undistracted by keeping watch over Sophie's love hostage, were now able to visit the full measure of their affection and joy upon their returning master. It is generally agreed, and in fact stated in the bylaws of the American Kennel Club, that you have not been truly dog-humped until you have been double-dog-humped by a pair of four-hundred-pouund hounds from hell (Section 5, paragraph 7: Standards of Humping and Ass-dragging). And despite having used an extra-strength antiperspirant that very morning before leaving Sedona, Charlie found that getting poked repeatedly in the armpits by two damp devil-dog dicks was leaving him feeling less than fresh. Sophie, call them off. Call them off." The puppies are dancing with Daddy," Sophie giggled. "Dance, Daddy!

I won't marry you." "Of course you will," he said. "Why wouldn't you? You followed me around like a puppy dog all those years ago, which was pure misery, because I wanted nothing more than to toss you down in the straw and despoil you, and you were too damned young. Back then I had scruples. Fortunantly, nowadays I have none." "Then why do you want to marry me?" She said, shoving her hair away from her face. "I have no idea." He said idly. "I expect I love you. Nothing else could account for such bizarre behavior on my part. I expect the captain of the packet ship can perform a ceremony. Are you ready?" She didn't move. She couldn't marry him, and she needed shoes, and she wasn't sure which was the most important to argue about.

You're not supposed to be on the bed," he told the puppy. "It's contractually prohibited.

Cæsar once, seeing some wealthy strangers at Rome, carrying up and down with them in their arms and bosoms young puppy-dogs and monkeys, embracing and making much of them, took occasion not unnaturally to ask whether the women in their country were not used to bear children; by that prince-like reprimand gravely reflecting upon persons who spend and lavish upon brute beasts that affection and kindness which nature has implanted in us to be bestowed on those of our own kind. With like reason may we blame those who misuse that love of inquiry and observation which nature has implanted in our souls, by expending it on objects unworthy of the attention either of their eyes or their ears, while they disregard such as are excellent in themselves, and would do them good.

Do you know what I love most about humans, pet? It’s our utter dogged stupidity. When it comes to love we never learn. Ever. Even when we know the risks. Even when it makes much more sense to relocate to individualized climate-controlled caves, where our hearts have at least a fighting chance at remaining intact. We know the risks of opening our hearts up. And yet we keep doing it anyway. We keep falling in love and having babies and buying shoes that look incredible but feel like death. We keep adopting puppies and making friends and buying white sofas that we know we’re going to drop a slice of pizza facedown on. We just keep doing it. Is it ignorance? Amnesia? Or is it something else? Something braver?

Mina didn’t care for pet stores. She loved animals, but hated going in and seeing hundreds of caged dogs, cats, birds, and mice. To her it was the same as walking into a prison and being asked to pick out a cute inmate to take home and care for. She sighed and walked over to Nan, who was already gushing over a playful Pomeranian and American Eskimo puppy.

The tragedy of puppies, taken from their families, all of them, never to see each other again. This is the sadness we inflict on the beasts we love.

This heavy, grass-loving dog,

He was kind of like a big puppy dog that just wanted to be loved but tended to hump your leg to get your attention.

It came to me that every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life, gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are.

She smiled thoughtfully. “I think Jackson was like a lost puppy. He needed purpose, someone to believe in him and love him despite his bullshit. But he didn’t have that, so he just went around humping everyone’s leg and peeing everywhere. Then you came along and he thought he found that owner that would give him that purpose—something that would make him feel needed—but you chose the fancy pet store puppy instead, so he went back to peeing on everything and destroying all the furniture.” “Um, Whit...is there a point to this?” “We all need someone to believe in us. It helps us see our full potential. You were that someone to believe in him. I think he’ll be a new man because of it.” “So you’re saying I rescued a lost puppy, and now he’ll become a topnotch show dog because I’m just so amazing?” “Exactly.” “You have such an eloquent way with words.” “No shit, right?” “Precisely.” -Emma and Whitney

I loved how Piglet personified the idea that even without all of the five senses, he used what he had - with determination and perseverance - to do virtually everything he needed to do to engage happily and confidently with his people, his dog pack, and his environment.

A cute puppy, everybody loved him, everybody fed him, and then it grew up. What is it now? Well! just a dog!! ;) P.S True story!!! It lost its hair and nobody even recognizes it. Whiskey!! whiskey !!.... and he used to come running, huffin and puffin!! And now all the love is gone!!

People may call it puppy love, but it feels like a full-grown dog when you've got it.

I slowly close my dark brown eyes; The sun and its rays are oh! so bright. I turn my nose, up towards the skies; The air! The scents!  All do excite!

[A] puppy does not automatically love you because you feed it.

mean, how can your heart not melt when you look at this beautiful tiny ball of fluffiness??

One woman had married a dog and given birth to puppies, only to peel back the fur to see they were actually babies underneath. Animals were simply nonhuman people, with the same ability to make conscious decisions, and humanity simmered under their skins. You could see it in the way they sat together for meals, or fell in love, or grieved. And this went both ways: Sometimes, in a human, there would turn out to be a hidden bit of a beast.

To accept the environmentalist argument that the suffering of individual animals is inconsequential compared to the ozone layer, we must be willing to admit that the sufferings of minority groups, raped women, battered wives, abused children, people sitting on death row, and our loved ones are small potatoes beneath the hole in the sky. To worry about any of them is, in effect, to miniaturize the big picture to portraits of battered puppy dogs.

This is the thing...you give everything to raising a guide-dog puppy, but the everything comes from you spirit -- it's your happiness, your wakefulness, your love of life itself. Puppies take this into their hearts like vitamins.

She would talk of castles and princesses and a woman named Scheherazade who had a thousand and one stories to tell. Shadow loved it when Emma told him her dreams. With her little warm fingers, Emma stroked his head as if he were but a puppy with all the strength of his youth yet to come, for the greatest joy in life is the conviction that we are loved in spite of ourselves. His legs may have been faded yellow but Shadow knew that he was loved by Theo’s daughter.

218.The same principle probably explains why dogs, when feeling affectionate, like rubbing against their masters and being rubbed or patted by them, for from the nursing of their puppies, contact with a beloved object has become firmly associated in their minds with the emotion of love. The feeling of affection of a dog towards his master is combined with a strong sense of submission, which is akin to fear. Hence dogs not only lower their bodies and crouch a little as they approach their masters, but sometimes throw themselves on the ground with their bellies upwards.

When he finally broke off the kiss and moved his lips to her neck, then her breast again, sucking her nipples back to hard peaks, Catherine broke from her trance. “No. I really must go. We haven’t time to do this again.” She pushed against his restraining hands and wiggled beneath his body. “Let me up now.” He pulled away from her neck and looked up, his eyes as poignant as a spoken plea. Her heart wrenched and she wished she could spend the rest of the day with him, making love in their secret nest in the loft. She sighed. “Don’t give me puppy dog eyes. I’ve got to go.

E-Liz-A-Beth, you'll take me to Noctem Falls won't you?" Meryn begged giving her puppy dog eyes. "Of course I will. We can go there after DragonCon next year," she promised. "Oh no. She talked you into that convention thing." Aiden glared at his mate. "It's perfectly safe. Think of it this way. It's an event where thousands of people just like Meryn get together for a couple days and live it up," Elizabeth explained. All five men paled. "Thousands of people," Colton whispered. "Just like Meryn?" Keelan asked. Elizabeth looked around. The men had that deer in the headlights looks. "Maybe not just like her." "Thank goodness. One Meryn in the world is enough," Colton teased, looking relieved. "It's because I'm a 'Limited Edition'. Y'all should be grateful for even knowing me," Meryn huffed. "We are, my love. We are." Aiden scowled at his men over Meryn's head. "We wouldn't trade you for a sane version any day," Colton reassured her. Meryn smiled then frowned. "What do you mean 'sane version'?

I spent a few hours with Mercedes. She was, on the surface, quite troll-like—a lover of jubilant online chaos. She told me about her favorite 4chan thread. It was started by "a guy who's genuinely in love with his dog, and his dog went in heat, and so he went around collecting samples and injecting them into his penis and he fucked his dog and got her pregnant and they're his puppies." Mercedes laughed. "That's the thread I told the FBI about when they asked me about 4chan, and some of the officers actually got up and left the room.

Whether this propensity be one of those original principles in human nature of which no further account can be given; or whether, as seems more probable, it be the necessary consequence of the faculties of reason and speech, it belongs not to our present subject to inquire. It is common to all men, and to be found in no other race of animals, which seem to know neither this nor any other species of contracts. Two greyhounds, in running down the same hare, have sometimes the appearance of acting in some sort of concert. Each turns her towards his companion, or endeavours to intercept her when his companion turns her towards himself. This, however, is not the effect of any contract, but of the accidental concurrence of their passions in the same object at that particular time. Nobody ever saw a dog make a fair and deliberate exchange of one bone for another with another dog. Nobody ever saw one animal by its gestures and natural cries signify to another, this is mine, that yours; I am willing to give this for that. When an animal wants to obtain something either of a man or of another animal, it has no other means of persuasion but to gain the favour of those whose service it requires. A puppy fawns upon its dam, and a spaniel endeavours by a thousand attractions to engage the attention of its master who is at dinner, when it wants to be fed by him. Man sometimes uses the same arts with his brethren, and when he has no other means of engaging them to act according to his inclinations, endeavours by every servile and fawning attention to obtain their good will. He has not time, however, to do this upon every occasion. In civilised society he stands at all times in need of the cooperation and assistance of great multitudes, while his whole life is scarce sufficient to gain the friendship of a few persons. In almost every other race of animals each individual, when it is grown up to maturity, is entirely independent, and in its natural state has occasion for the assistance of no other living creature. But man has almost constant occasion for the help of his brethren, and it is in vain for him to expect it from their benevolence only. He will be more likely to prevail if he can interest their self-love in his favour, and show them that it is for their own advantage to do for him what he requires of them. Whoever offers to another a bargain of any kind, proposes to do this. Give me that which I want, and you shall have this which you want, is the meaning of every such offer; and it is in this manner that we obtain from one another the far greater part of those good offices which we stand in need of. It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest. We address ourselves, not to their humanity but to their self-love, and never talk to them of our own necessities but of their advantages. Nobody but a beggar chooses to depend chiefly upon the benevolence of his fellow-citizens. Even a beggar does not depend upon it entirely. The charity of well-disposed people, indeed, supplies him with the whole fund of his subsistence. But though this principle ultimately provides him with all the necessaries of life which he has occasion for, it neither does nor can provide him with them as he has occasion for them. The greater part of his occasional wants are supplied in the same manner as those of other people, by treaty, by barter, and by purchase. With the money which one man gives him he purchases food. The old clothes which another bestows upon him he exchanges for other old clothes which suit him better, or for lodging, or for food, or for money, with which he can buy either food, clothes, or lodging, as he has occasion.

…He needed to find some little poor kids to playfully spray with a hose, while he was helping out at a charity carwash for the handicapped or something.  Maybe rent a wet dog for the afternoon, and get it to shake its head in slow motion, while he laughed like some douchebag asshole and tried to lightheartedly block the soapy droplets with his hands or one of the little wheelchair kids or something.  Women loved that shit if movies were to be believed.  They ate it up. Sadly, he had no idea how to go about doing any of that though.  None of the pet shops had been open to the idea of him using their puppies as a prop in a seduction fantasy, and all of the schools for the disabled he called had refused to give him an hourly rate on renting their students.

We cannot attempt to tame others' demons until we have conquered and tamed our own. When I was a little girl I tamed several vicious guard dogs that were left to rot in cages. Their owners so afraid of them, they'd feed the dogs from a pail at the end of a long stick! I tamed several such dogs, turned them into playful, loving pets. I never imposed myself, I would only sit quietly near their cages day after day, for months, perhaps whispering; taming my own fear and my own impatience while holding space for them in my presence. They eventually turned into playful puppies! What kind of energy is that? It's an energy which has mastered its own demons. People go around trying to change others, but they can't even change themselves. Master your own monsters first.

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.

Christmas Cookie Bonanza?” “Christmas Cookie Bonanza,” I confirm. “You’re making my favorite, right?” Josh gives me puppy-dog eyes, which always makes me laugh, because it’s so un-Josh. “You’re such a dork,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s your favorite?” Peter asks him. “Because I think the list is pretty set.” “I’m pretty sure it’s already on the list,” Josh says. I look from Josh to Peter. I can’t tell if they’re kidding or not. Peter reaches out and tickles Kitty’s feet. “Read us the list, Katherine.” Kitty giggles and rolls over to her notepad. Then she stands up and grandly says, “M&M cookies are a yes, cappuccino cookies are a maybe, Creamsicle cookies are a maybe, fruitcake cookies are a no way--” “Wait a minute, I’m a part of this council too,” Peter objects, “and you guys just turned down my fruitcake cookies without a second thought.” “You said to forget the fruitcake cookies, like, five seconds ago!” I say. “Well, now I want them back under consideration,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have the votes,” I tell him. “Kitty and I both vote no, so that’s two against one.” My dad pops his head into the living room. “Put me down as a yes vote for the fruitcake cookies.” His head disappears back into the kitchen. “Thank you, Dr. Covey,” Peter crows. He drags me closer to him. “See, I knew your dad was on my side.” I laugh. “You’re such a suck-up!” And then I look over at Josh, and he is staring at us with a funny, left-out look on his face. It makes me feel bad, that look. I scoot away from Peter and start flipping through my books again. I tell him, “The list is still a work in progress. The cookie council will strongly consider your white-chocolate cranberry cookies.” “Greatly appreciated,” Josh says. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without your white-chocolate cranberry cookies.” Kitty pipes up, “Hey, Josh, you’re a suck-up too.” Josh grabs her and tickles her until she’s laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.

Grace didn’t go to the shelter at all that week. She just couldn’t bear it. She had made Harry’s life even harder by falling in love with him. He had to find a new home, and she was stopping him. She just had to let him go, the sooner the better. She supposed she could have gone back to the shelter and kept away from Harry, but that would be so difficult. Danny didn’t even try to persuade her this time. Mum had phoned the shelter to talk to Sally and explain. Grace had listened to what Mum was saying, and she could tell that Sally was sad, but that she agreed with Mum. It was the best thing for Harry. Life felt very flat without the shelter to go to, though, Grace thought, lying on her bed listening to her favourite CD. School, more school, hanging around at home. She’d gone to Maya’s for tea yesterday, which was nice, but she still missed Harry, and all the other dogs, so much. “Grace!” Mum called from the kitchen. “Time to go!” Grace sighed, and rolled off her bed. Another flat to go and see.

Wolves stood outside our fires, and humans were terrified,” answered Ahanu. “Yet our warrior-fathers did not kill them. The wolves came from Mother Earth. They were part of us. So, we brought what we feared to the warmth of the flame. Before the fire, we trained them. We loved them. We bred them to be useful to our tribes. Over the many years, what had frightened us now became our greatest allies. Together, these dogs and we people fought against the darkness of the wood.” Theo blinked, trying to understand. He looked at the golden puppy on the ground, running through the feet and legs of the adults. Then to Ahanu. “But, sir, why do you tell me this?” Theo asked. “This dog, who shall be under your care, belongs to the best of humankind’s creation. For man transformed that which he feared into something which could love him. The dog, Theo, is the great witness to the one truth. There is but the one truth. Four words like my tale. The truth is this: Love triumphs over fear. Remember what I say for I know you. Do not ask me how I know that you live in a storm of fury . . .” Then he said softly, intimately, “. . . and fear. But take heart, for love has overcome the wild world. Dogs were once wolves.

Beth nodded, wiping her tears away with her sleeve. She supposed she ought to be glad about that – she certainly didn’t want Harry to be here at the shelter for ages, all miserable in a little run. But she didn’t want anyone else to have him either! He was hers. She’d only had him for two months, when her dad broke the news to her that his company was sending him to America for three years. At first it had seemed so exciting, going to live in New York, but almost at once she’d thought of Harry. Would he like it there? And then Dad had said he couldn’t come. That it would be too difficult with quarantine, and they would be living in a city flat that wouldn’t be suitable for a dog. Harry had to stay behind, and since they had no one to leave him with, he had to go to the shelter – a home for unwanted dogs. Which didn’t seem fair, because Beth did want him, very much. “We’ll write to you, to let you know when Harry’s settled with a new owner,” Sally promised. “Really soon. I know he’s going to find a lovely home.” Beth wanted to shout out that he had a lovely home, but she nodded, and her dad led her out, which was good, because she was crying so much she couldn’t see. Harry whimpered, calling after her and scrabbling at the wire door. Beth was crying! There was something wrong, and she was going away from him. He howled for two hours, and then he was so exhausted he fell asleep. When he woke up, she still hadn’t come back.

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

So, uh, where should I…?” I told up the pizza boxes as I trail off. “Oh, right. Kitchen table’s fine.” “I’ll show you!” Madison announces, as if I don’t know where it is, but I let her lead me there anyway. Kennedy shuts the door and follows behind us. I set the boxes on the table, and Madison doesn’t hesitate, popping the top one open. She makes a face, looking horrified. “Gross!” “What in the world are you—?” Kennedy laughs as she glances at the pizza. “Ham and pineapple.” “Why is that fruit on the pizza?” Madison asks. “Because it’s good,” Kennedy says, snatching the top box away before opening the other one. “There, that one’s for you.” Madison shrugs it off, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza, eating straight from the box. I’m gathering this is normal, since Kennedy sits down beside her to do the same. “You remembered,” she says plucking a piece of pineapple off a slice of pizza and popping it in her mouth. “Of course,” I say, grabbing a slice of cheese from the box Madison is hoarding. “Pretty sure I’m scarred for life because of it. Not something I can forget.” She laughs, the sound soft, as she gives me one of the most genuine smiles I’ve seen in a while. It fades as she averts her gaze, but goddamn it, it happened. “You shoulda gots the breads,” Madison says, standing on her chair as she leans closer, vying for my attention like she’s afraid I might not see her. “And the chickens!” “Ah, didn’t know you liked those,” I tell her, “or I would’ve gotten them.” “Next time,” she says, just like that, no question about it. “Next time,” I say. “And soda, too,” she says. “No soda,” Kennedy chimes in. Madison glances at her mother before leaning even closer, damn near right up on me, whisper-shouting, “Soda.” “I’m not so sure your mom will like that,” I say. “It’s okay,” Madison says. “She tells Grandpa no soda, too, but he lets me have it.” “That’s because you emotionally blackmail him,” Kennedy says. “Nuh-uh!” Madison says, looking at her mother. “I don’t blackmail him!” Kennedy scoffs. “How do you know? You don’t even know what that means.” “So?” Madison says. “I don’t mail him nothing!” ... “You give him those sad puppy-dog eyes,” Kennedy says, grabbing Madison by the chin, squeezing her chubby cheeks. “And you tell him you’ll love him ‘the mostest’ if he gives you some Coca-Cola to drink.” “ ‘Cuz I will,” Madison says. “That’s emotional blackmail.” “Oh.” Madison makes a face, turning to me when her mother lets go of her. “How ‘bout root beer?” “I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “Sorry.” Madison scowls, hopping down from the table to grab a juice box from the refrigerator.

Rose barely poured herself a cup of hot, mouth-watering chocolate, when she saw Grey and Archer walking across the lawn. Archer was impeccable as always, but Grey was a mess. His clothes were the same he’d worn the night before, and obviously slept in. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed a glimpse of tanned flesh that made her heart twitch and her gingers itch to touch him. His hair was mussed, and stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, except where prohibited by his scar. In short, he looked absolutely beautiful-a fallen angel. The only thing that made him remotely human was that scar, and she could easily tell herself he got that from battling the archangel Gabriel before being thrown out of heaven. She squinted as she realize Grey held something against his chest-something that moved. Was that a puppy? She jumped to her feet, and skipped down the few steps that took her down to the lawn. Lifting the skirts of her yellow morning gown, she hurried to meet them. “Good morning!” she cried. “What have you there?” Archer smiled in greeting, but Rose barely noticed. Her gaze was riveted on the man looking at her with an expression so hopeful it neigh on broke her heart. “I brought you something,” he said, his voice low and strangely rough. “A gift.” And then he held out his arms and offered her the sweetest face she’d ever seen. “Oh!” What an idiot she must seem, her eyes welling with tears over a dog, but she didn’t care. She let the tears come and slip down her cheeks as she took the warm, silky animal into her own arms, burying her face against its fur. “Grey, thank you!” “He’s too young to be away from his mother yet, but he’s yours if you want hm.” “Of course I want him! He’s beautiful.” He ran a hand through the thick tangle of his hair. “I didn’t know that you’d never had a dog before.” Rose cast a glance at Archer, who shrugged. “Telling my secrets are you, Lord Archer?” What else had he revealed? Grey’s brother shot her a sincere glance. “Only that one, Lady Rose. I did not think you would mind.” “And I don’t.” Turning her attention back to the squirming puppy in her arms, Rose was rewarded with a lick to the chin. “He’ll need to go back to the stables in a few minutes,” Grey told her. “But you can see him whenever you like.” With her free hand, Rose reached out and took one of Grey’s. His fingers were so big and strong next to hers. She squeezed and then let go, letting him know with a touch just how much his gift meant to her. “I love him. Thank you so very much.” “What are you going to name him?” he asked. Rose tore her gaze away from the pleasure in his, lest she do something stupid like kiss him in front of his brother. Instead, she cast a small, secretive smile at Archer. “Heathcliff,” she replied. “His name is Heathcliff.

If you were to succeed in prolonging the deliriously ecstatic puppy-dog love stage of the first months of courtship through-out the entire relationship itself-through marriage, unto death-would this same love, so celebrated, so sought after, break down in utter incredulity at the duration of its own existence?

Winter again. The summer people have gone. The early morning walks are solitary once more. Fog wraps the ocean and sky like a wet, gray glove. Sprinting through the frosty dune grass, my dog Buddy emerges soaked and grinning. He's become a man-child, his boundless puppy love and mindless exuberance caroming off the walls in a muscular body. He lives by one rule: To be alive is to be gloriously happy. Not a bad way to be, I often remind myself. Comfortable in the ebb and flow of each other's idiosyncracies and needs, he keeps me company while I work, I join him often in his play. His unflagging high spirits urge me to cram activity and joy into every waking moment as he does. By so doing, I tell myself, I will multiply my allotted time by dog years and dilate the remaining seasons accordingly. A good way to look at life, I figure.

For you make me glad by your deeds, Lord; I sing for joy at what your hands have done. —Psalm 92:4 (NIV) My golden retriever, Millie, and I were walking home from the dog park, where Millie socialized for a bit but mostly sat sedately next to me on a bench while I read. At five, Millie doesn’t play as rambunctiously as she once did. She has a few select friends whom she will cavort with, but her inner puppy rarely emerges anymore. Except when we pass Clement Clarke Moore Park, which is teeming with children. There is nothing my dog loves more than kids. She gives me a plaintive look as if to ask, “Can we go inside and have some real fun?” There is a sign, though, that says the park is only for kids and their parents or guardians. No dogs allowed. I gently tug on her leash. She is reluctant to go, dawdling and glancing longingly over her shoulder, her tail drooping. Lord, I wonder, do dogs know that they break our hearts? “Sir? Excuse me, sir?” A woman stood at the park’s gate, pushing a baby in a stroller trailed by two older kids. She waved at me. “Can my kids say hello to your dog?” Before I could answer, Millie was on the move, prancing and pulling me back. First she said hello to the baby, giving it a kiss, her tail flying. Then she bumped up against the older kids, letting them hug and pet her, all the while with an ecstatic look on her face. Finally the woman maneuvered her kids back into the park. “Thanks,” she said, “they really wanted to see a dog today.” Thank You, Lord, for giving us what we need, even a maturing golden retriever whose inner puppy still wants to play. —Edward Grinnan Digging Deeper: Ps 84:11

February 27 Devoted Gazes of a Slave But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves to God, the benefit you reap leads to holiness, and the result is eternal life. —Romans 6:22 It was bitterly cold and raining, as I went to the barn to get horse feed. In the darkness, I could barely see a patch of white in the hay. “not a good idea to leave the poor thing,” I said to myself. Assuming it was a cat, I thought I bet I’m going to get scratched. But there was no resistance. As I slid my hand under the tiny animal, I realized it was a puppy. I tucked it deep into the folds of my jacket and walked back to the house. After vigorously rubbing her coat, I wrapped her in a big, fluffy towel—still shivering. As I entered the kitchen to get milk, her little body was leaning as far to the left as she could trying not to lose sight of me. I never found the owner and from that day, Chelsea was wholly devoted to me. None of my dogs ever doted on me like she did. She literally became my slave. Her gaze was constantly upon me. She was obedient and lived to bring pleasure. I tell this story to illustrate the loving gaze of the slave toward her master. She knows he has rescued her from certain death and even now has the power of life and death over her, yet she loves him for sparing her life. She watches him closely, trying to learn his wants and desires; she devotes herself to pleasing him. Her joy becomes his joy; and in the end, he blesses her with more than she has ever given him. Perhaps it’s been a while since you’ve gazed upon the one who has saved you from the slavery of sin. Would you return to worship at his feet with loving devotion, knowing that he will give you much more than you could ever sacrifice for Him?

Mr. Nobley was walking briskly from one room to the next, his eyes up as though trying to avoid eye contact. He looked scrumptious in his black jacket and white tie. Even better when he saw her and stopped. Really looked. Zing. Hello, Nobley. “Mr. Nobley!” A stranger woman of retirement age waved a handkerchief gleefully and bustle-jogged toward him. Mr. Nobley fled. And then, Martin was there, in tails, cravat, and all, and scanning the crowd. For my face, she thought. It was Martin’s turn to look up, to see her. His expression was--whoa, she knew now that she was looking pretty good. Others noticed his expression and turned as well. The murmuring hushed and music swirled from the other room. She was Cinderella entering alone. What, no trumpets? Martin rushed up several steps to escort her down. “I’m fine,” she whispered. He took her arm anyway. “That’s a crackin’ dress, Jane. I mean…Miss Erstwhile. Might I have the pleasure of obtaining your hand for the next two dances?” Ah, his smell! She was in his room again, static on the TV, a can of root beer so cold it was sweating, his hands touching her face. She wanted him close. She wanted to feel as real as she had those nights. Her sleeves pinched her shoulders, her dress felt heavy in the skirts. “I can’t, Martin,” she said. “I already promised--” “Miss Erstwhile,” Mr. Nobley was standing at her elbow. He bowed civilly. “The first dance is beginning, if you care to accompany me.” Was there a look that passed between the two men? Some heated past? Or would they (wahoo!) have a jealous tussle over Jane’s attentions? Nope. Mr. Nobley led her away. Martin stayed put, watching her go, something of a puppy dog in his eyes. She tried to say with her own, “I’m sorry I ignored you the night of the theatrical and I understand why you judged me for being the kind of woman to fall in love with this fantasy and I’ll be back and maybe we can talk then or just make out,” though she didn’t know how much of that she actually communicated. Maybe just a part, like “I’m sorry” or “you judged me” or “make out.

While talking to the girls, I watched as Mega stared at me with his puppy dog eyes, I could care less.

My heart was pounding as I drove up the coast again a few days later. There was the familiar little sign, the modest entrance. And here he was again, as large as life--six feet tall, broad shoulders, a big grin, and a warm and welcome handshake. Our first real touch. “Well, I’m back,” I said lamely. “Good on you, mate,” Steve said. I thought, I’ve got what on me? Right away, I was extremely self-conscious about a hurdle I felt that we had to get over. I wasn’t entirely sure about Steve’s marital status. I looked for a ring, but he didn’t wear one. That doesn’t mean anything, I told myself. He probably can’t wear one because of his work. I think he figured out what I was hinting at as I started asking him questions about his friends and family. He lived right there at the zoo, he told me, with his parents and his sister Mandy. His sister Joy was married and had moved away. I was trying to figure out how to say, “So, do you have a girlfriend?” when suddenly he volunteered the information. “Would you like to meet my girlfriend?” he asked. Ah, I felt my whole spirit sink into the ground. I was devastated. But I didn’t want to show that to Steve. I stood up straight and tall, smiled, and said, “Yes, I’d love to.” “Sue,” he called out. “Hey, Sue.” Bounding around the corner came this little brindle girl, Sui, his dog. “Here’s my girlfriend,” he said with a smile. This is it, I thought. There’s no turning back. We spent a wonderful weekend together. I worked alongside him at the zoo from sunup to sunset. During the day it was raking the entire zoo, gathering up the leaves, cleaning up every last bit of kangaroo poo, washing out lizard enclosures, keeping the snakes clean. But it was the croc work that was most exciting. The first afternoon of that visit, Steve took me in with the alligators. They came out of their ponds like sweet little puppies--puppies with big, sharp teeth and frog eyes. I didn’t know what to expect, but with Steve there, I felt a sense of confidence and security. The next thing I knew, I was feeding the alligators big pieces of meat, as if I’d done it all my life.

The city wasa, wasa, wasa wossname. Thing. Woman. Thass what it was. Woman. Roaring, ancient, centuries old. Strung you along, let you fall in thingy, love, with her, then kicked you inna, inna, thingy. Thingy, in your mouth. Tongue. Tonsils. Teeth. That’s what it, she, did. She wasa . . .thing, you know, lady dog. Puppy. Hen. Bitch. And then you hated her and, and just when you thought you’d got her, it, out of your, your, whatever, then she opened her great booming rotten heart to you, caught you off bal, bal, bal, thing. Ance. Yeah. Thassit. Never knew where where you stood. Lay. Only thing you were sure of, you couldn’t let her go. Because, because she was yours, all you had, even in her gutters .

Dumpling is the kind of dog that makes people on the street do double- and triple-takes and ask in astonished voices, "What kind of dog IS that?!" His head is way too small for his thick, solid body, and his legs are too spindly. His eyes point away from each other like a chameleon. One side of his mouth curls up a little, half-Elvis, half palsy-victim, and his tongue has a tendency to stick out just a smidgen on that side. He was found as a puppy running down the median of a local highway, and I adopted him from PAWS five years ago, after he had been there for nearly a year. He is, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to me. My girlfriend Bennie says it looks like he was assembled by a disgruntled committee. Barry calls him a random collection of dog bits. My mom, in a classic ESL moment, asked upon meeting him, "He has the Jack Daniels in him, leetle bit, no?' I was going to correct her and say Jack Russell, but when you look at him, he does look a little bit like he has the Jack Daniels in him. My oldest nephew, Alex, who watches too much Family Guy and idolizes Stewie, took one look, and then turned to me in all seriousness and said in that weird almost-British accent, "Aunt Alana, precisely what brand of dog is that?" I replied, equally seriously, that he was a purebred Westphalian Stoat Hound. When the kid learns how to Google, I'm going to lose major cool aunt points. Dumpling tilts his head back and licks the underside of my chin, wallowing in love. "Dog, you are going to be the death of me. You have got to let me sleep sometime." These words are barely out of my mouth, when he leaps up and starts barking, in a powerful growly baritone that belies his small stature.

RJ is standing there, and in his arms is a wriggling French bulldog puppy of the most inexplicable color, almost pale honeyed yellow tinged with a sort of peachy pink. "Oh my goodness! Who are you?" RJ hands me the pup, who immediately starts licking all over my face and biting my ponytail. Dumpling tries to stand on his one leg to see what is going on, and falls over at my feet. RJ scoops him up and puts him face-to-face with the puppy. "Dumpling, there is someone we want you to meet. We thought you might want a little sister." Dumpling looks at the puppy, who leans forward and licks his face. Dumpling licks back. The puppy sniffs his ear and then with one move, snatches the eye patch right off his head and starts to chew it. Dumpling looks at me with his one good eye, head cocked as if to say, "We're going to have our hands full with this one," and then turns and licks RJ under his chin. "I can't believe you did this! You are so sneaky." "Well, we did talk about wanting to do it, and a guy at work breeds them for showing, but this one is off the allowable color charts." "She does have a certain, um... Well, she's kind of, um..." "Pink? Yeah. Some weird anomaly, and apparently, not good for the show circuit." "But good for us." "That's what I thought." "What should we call her?" RJ smiles. "I was thinking Pamplemousse." "Of course. What else could she be?

So I was pet free, and not unhappily so, until Aimee showed up the morning of my last day of being twenty-nine with a teacup-sized, deep red, wriggling puppy. It was love at first sight, and I'm grateful for her serene and placid presence. Not to mention the fact that she is the perfect dog. Never naughty, never a sick day in her life, never has an accident in the house or chews anything she oughtn't. She is essentially the non-dog dog, practically a person, and I can take her anywhere.

My life was going to be different from my mother’s. She belonged to one person, to Walt. But I did not. I wasn’t Mona’s dog, or Patsy’s, or Tyler’s, or Eddie’s. I belonged to all my friends. I was everyone’s dog. I was surrounded by people who loved me, just like Grandad was. Suddenly, I understood that I was the luckiest dog in the world.

Letter to a Lost Friend by Barbara Hamby There must be a Russian word to describe what has happened between us, like ostyt, which can be used for a cup of tea that is too hot, but after you walk to the next room, and return, it is too cool; or perekhotet, which is to want something so much over months and even years that when you get it, you have lost the desire. Pushkin said, when he saw his portrait by Kiprensky, “It is like looking into a mirror, but one that flatters me.” What is the word for someone who looks into her friend’s face and sees once smooth skin gone like a train that has left the station in Petersburg with its wide avenues and nights at the Stray Dog Cafe, sex with the wrong men, who looked so right by candlelight, when everyone was young and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, painted or wrote all night but nothing good, drank too much vodka, and woke in the painful daylight with skin like fresh cream, books everywhere, Lorca on Gogol, Tolstoy under Madame de Sévigné, so that now, on a train in the taiga of Siberia, I see what she sees — all my books alphabetized and on shelves, feet misshapen, hands ribbed with raised veins, neck crumpled like last week’s newspaper, while her friends are young, their skin pimply and eyes bright as puppies’, and who can blame her, for how lucky we are to be loved for even a moment, though I can’t help but feel like Pushkin, a rough ball of lead lodged in his gut, looking at his books and saying, “Goodbye, my dear friends,” as those volumes close and turn back into oblong blocks, dust clouding the gold leaf that once shimmered on their spines.

I have clients that feel like family, I make far more money than I've got a right to, considering the workload, and I have amazing benefits. What could be bad?" "I suppose I meant if you are satisfied creatively." I'd never really thought about that. The Farbers give me free rein, but they have a repertoire of my dishes that they love and want to have regularly in the rotation, and everything has to be kid friendly; even if we are talking about kids with precocious tastes, they are still kids. Lawrence is easy: breakfasts, lunches, and healthy snacks for his days; he eats most dinners out with friends, or stays home with red wine and popcorn, swearing that Olivia Pope stole the idea from him. And I'm also in charge of home-cooked meals for Philippe and Liagre, his corgis, who like ground chicken and rice with carrots, and home-baked peanut butter dog biscuits. Simca was a gift from him, four years ago. She was a post-Christmas rescue puppy, one of those gifts that a family was unprepared for, who got left at a local shelter where Lawrence volunteers. He couldn't resist her, but knew that Philippe and Liagre barely tolerate each other, and he couldn't imagine bringing a female of any species into their manly abode. Luckiest thing that ever happened to me, frankly. She's the best pup ever. I named her Simca because it was Julia Child's nickname for her coauthor Simone Beck. She is, as the other Eloise, my own namesake, would say, my mostly companion. Lawrence's dinner parties are fun to do- he always has a cool group of interesting people, occasionally famous ones- but he is pretty old-school, so there isn't a ton of creativity in those menus, lots of chateaubriand and poached salmon with the usual canapés and accompaniments.

Experience, in short, is the other factor that shapes dogs’ actions and their minds. This is obvious when you think about it: after all, no puppy or kitten or youngster from any other domesticated species is born tame. Tameness has to be learned by each individual in its own lifetime. The sweetest puppy will grow up to be a wild animal if it is not early in life introduced to people.

Bella, Samuel explained, had recently produced a litter of burnished bronze puppies. The other Zappia children were busy selling most of them to tourists gullible enough to believe they were a rare African breed of lion-hunting dog, but Samuel had kept one. "The best one. I saved for you. See how he looks at you?" It was true: the puppy in my basket had stopped its squirming to stare up at me with damp, blue-sheened eyes, as if awaiting divine instruction.

Puppies are born with the genes for love, but it still takes a village to raise a loving dog.

Sable smiled. She would just say it. “I’m in love with you.” Thorne’s expression shifted from pained puppy dog to hot-blooded male demon in a heartbeat, a sexy and devastating grin curling his lips and flashing a hint of fang.

Thousands of years in time must past, Before the earth is ready for the last. A Chosen One appointed this day, A dog and his companion shall make their way. Of seven puppies he will be the last, Into the earth will his role be cast. He will uniquely know the human mind, Revealing secrets hidden since the beginning of time. Dogs and humans shall together be, In a place where their lives are safe and free. In lands of sand and hills and green, Riding side by side shall they be seen. In a land far across the deep blue sea, Where destiny is unlocked by a secret key. Dog and human will together go, Battling evil in a world of woe. Humans will in rolling boxes ride, With dogs happily sitting by their side. Dogs shall great wonders do, As secret things shall come true. There is more to this prophecy than you see, Hidden within is what makes you free. Remember Life is not about me and you, There are others on this journey too. Choosing others makes the day, Letting self-reign is not the way. Many are called to join this quest, But first you must pass the test. When

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

Force is always my last resort.” True aggression that causes significant injury is not something a dog wants to use. Dogs will do almost anything to avoid using their teeth to cause harm. Puppies first learn bite inhibition from their mothers and their littermates. The exception to this dictum is when dogs respond reflexively in self-defense to something that causes pain or fear, making rational thought impossible.

I grew up in a time where television shows had story upon story relating rabid, biting dogs.  To add to the fright, walking in my neighborhood was adventurous, in part:  There were more loose dogs back then than there are these days.  I imagined they were all rabid, so I either crossed the street, or ran the other way.  I learned quickly that running doesn’t stop a dog from running with you.

Take him out to pee after every one hour or so.

Right now I’m so completely EXHAUSTED from all of the drama with the dogs that I could fall over!

Hmm.” He yawned and dropped his head onto my shoulder. “So will you help me?” “Of course I will. When do you want to go?” “As soon as possible.” His skin was warm and he had that puppy-dog sleeping boy-smell. “You smell good,” he said, echoing my thoughts. “No, I don’t. I ran six miles this morning and haven’t showered yet.” “You still smell good.

In terms of drive, all puppies want to chew on everything and jump on everyone. But they don’t distinguish between positive and negative attention, praise versus scolding. That’s why we don’t teach puppies with punishment and no’s. We’re going to stick to positive rewards. The only attention they’ll know is approval, and it will come when they obey as you teach your puppy that nothing in life is free. They might come with their own rambunctious drive, but you’re going to teach them to, in effect, say please and thank you. You’ll teach them to deeply want to act polite in exciting situations, because they will have learned through basic training that they will get love, approval, attention, and treats when they behave. The cost of these goodies is good manners. And the joy they’ll get from your approval will greatly outweigh the chewing and jumping drive they were born with.

A functional reward is one that is not food based. There are lots of functional rewards such as retrieving, tugging, physical affection, car rides, walks, chase games, and verbal praise in a high, excited voice. Not all puppies find all of those rewarding, but you’ll soon know what your puppy loves.

Maxi Paton was not a rescue puppy, but Maxi needed to be saved.

So, was that what it was like for you? When your dad left?” I hoped I wasn’t overstepping, but it felt easy to talk to him, out here in the quiet. “Definitely.” Jude looked down at his shiny coffee-colored shoes. “At first, I was still pretending everything would go back to normal. But then, at last year’s Winter Formal, of all places, it hit me. I realized that, no matter what you do or say, you can’t change other people. That no matter how much you love or care about them, in the end, they are who they are. And if they don’t want what you want, you can’t change that.” Jude sighed and then looked up at the ceiling. “It was such a brutally depressing thought for me at the time. The puppy was born.” As I studied Jude’s face, it softened and he turned his eyes to me. “Later, though, the same thought became kind of freeing. My dad made his choice and I could accept it or not. It helped me move on. I didn’t want things to go back to normal.” “You didn’t?” “My dad always wanted me to do the things he wanted to do.” “That . . . sucks.” “It did suck,” Jude said. “But it helped me realize I was better off without him.” “So, once you did that, the puppy disappeared?” Jude scrunched his mouth to the side. “I don’t think the puppy ever goes away. I think it just grows up. You know, you live with it for a while, and then you start training it and learning its ways, and eventually it doesn’t need you as much anymore. Maybe it becomes an outdoor dog. You still have to feed it and give it exercise and pet it sometimes, when it comes back. But if you do all that, it’ll let you live your life.

There was one last question I had for her. I’d always been curious about her first piece of advice on raising Atticus: Carry him everywhere you go, and don’t let anyone else hold him that first month. “That worked so well. I tell everyone who gets a puppy that they should do it. Where does it come from, Paige?” There was a pause on the other end of the phone, as if she were wondering whether she really wanted to tell me, and then in a soft, vulnerable voice she said, “That’s the way I always wanted to be loved, Tom.

puppy-raiser

Master so stupid that he loves paper. Loves paper more than Brewder. Paper doesn't bite him. Paper doesn't play. Brewder is better than paper. Master needs to play. Play play play. Paper makes master sad. Brewder must rescue master.

It was a long and tiring day at work and when you return home, what you see is your loving dog has caused significant damage to your luxurious furniture or also has chewed your costly shoes. Yes, it’s such a painful experience. Is your dog chewing or munching on everything? Well, it is one of the most common problems faced by dog owners. But, chewing is a normal dog behavior, all you need is to teach your dog what they can and can’t chew. Reasons why dogs chew on unexpected objects! Before heading to the solutions, first, it is advisable to know the reason why dogs chew on things. Separation anxiety is a common reason that makes dogs chew. Moreover, there are some signs that reflect separation anxiety in dogs- restlessness, defecation, whining, excessive barking- just to name a few. Hunger is another reason, dogs on a calorie-restricted diet try to find another source of nutrition, and hence, they chew and destroy objects. Mostly, hungry dogs chew on objects that smell like food. Most dogs love the excitement and some exercises, and if they are bored, they can look for something that they can chew. Just like human babies, puppies also lose baby teeth and face pain and discomfort when their adult teeth come in. Puppies look for ways to find relief from the discomfort and they look for something to chew.

Mary, however in typical matter of fact fashion, does not see any conflict in her multiple roles. “You know, rescue people often ask why breeders keep breeding dogs when there are so many unwanted dogs that have to be put down every year. My answer is that responsible breeders produce the best puppies for a long and healthy life, creating an opportunity for a fabulous human/canine bond that is based on a breeds particular attributes.” Mary loves the breed and enjoys all the time she spends with them, but she also takes her role as a breeder very seriously. “Do not over produce, do health testing and breed to improve the overall quality of the dog,” she implores. “And educate a potential dog owner about your breed so that you and they can be sure the dog is right for them.” Mary Remer, in the essay 'What a Good Dog!

There were good reasons to have a dog, but there were so many equally good reasons not to have one, and if people ever engaged in any calculation of benefit and convenience there would be no place for dogs in our lives. But that was not the way it was; people took on dogs out of love, without questioning whether it was the right time or the right place for love. Love simply took over and prompted one to act there and then. That was how dogs were taken into our lives; in that spirit of spontaneous affection, and not because we had considered and approved their case. Their case was messy and inconvenient and demanding—and yet we did it; we took on dogs, as Angus now did with this puppy on its lead and its two unrealistic young owners.

Joe said. ‘He could certainly do the training if you could look after the rest. It’s my experience that you can teach a puppy the rudiments of retrieving without getting out of your armchair.’ ‘Training a spaniel to quest without chasing takes a little more application,’ Mrs Kitts said severely. ‘You’re a lazy devil, Joe. I think that that’s why you stick to Labradors.’ Joe laughed and nearly choked on his food. ‘Anybody who chooses to work with spaniels,’ he said, wiping his eyes, ‘would make love standing up in a hammock, just to make life difficult.

have never had a poodle but I know that they are very special dogs. People who have poodles are crazy about them and often have more than one! My friend Annie loves her two black miniature poodles, Oggi and Pearl. They are so smart and funny and they love to curl up in your lap just like a cat would. And my friend Leda has two golden doodles, Pippa and Pogo. They love to play together. Even though they are only half poodle (the other half is golden retriever), they have to be groomed every ten weeks, just like poodles do. Yours from the Puppy Place, Ellen Miles P.S.

I don't want you anymore. I don't want to be second choice, second best, second whatever. I don't want to be the one who trails after you like some stupid lost puppy dog. I don't want to be the one you got stuck with after the one you loved got away.

The breeder had pressured the new owners into showing the promising young puppy. After McDuff’s first blue ribbon in Puppy Class, they were hooked but for the wrong reasons. Most people are involved in with dogs because they had that one special dog in their past. That special dog had been a friend, a confidant and fellow warrior against life’s travails. They now searched for that special dog once again but the search was for a memory which, like dreams, is vapor and shadow. Alice and Arnold needed the status of owning an American Kennel Club Champion. The man, more than the woman, had no particular love for the breed or dogs in general. McDuff had, in fact been a big disappointment because of the legendary Airedale WILL. The Airedale WILL compares to the proverbial immovable object meeting the irresistible force.

Imagine how miserable you would be eating nothing but low-quality food. A good diet is not only vital for good health, but also for morale. I’ve seen a world of difference in dogs before simply by switching their food. High-quality dog food is made from only the best ingredients, is low on fillers, and are often packed with vitamins that your Schnoodle needs for healthy growth and development. As a bonus, dogs love the taste!

Dogs get so excited they shake their butts into little torpedoes, start whining and hopping, then go grab their favorite toys to show you like they’re telling you all about them. And we love that about puppies. Their excitement. Their outpouring of uncontrollable joy, something they wouldn’t dare try and control. Why can’t we love that about humans who stim, too?

I still don't know to this day how she managed to climb the 94 stairs; she was dying from an overdose. The gate at the bottom of the stairwell did not make a sound when she entered the building, being so ill and alone. It was odd. Where could she have been? Almost as if she had been dropped off at my doorstep like a package silently by a (Polish) giant. She was pale and could barely open the door with her keys. When she entered, she fell into my arms; she was drunk and high, her legs buckling so that she couldn't stand. I tried to figure out what she had taken and what she had drunk, but she could barely talk; her eyes were rolling back in her skull. She was crying with her head in the toilet bowl, unable to stop the cramps running through her insides and her entire body shaking. - What did you drink? - Two … beers. - I am not your father. What did you take? Where have you been? - Beers and tequila - she mumbled, saliva drooling out of her mouth and her head hanging down like she was dead already. Then I asked her what else she had taken. She still wouldn't answer, so I repeated. - Answer me Martina, who gave it to you?! - I shouted. - Where have you been?! But she didn't answer, and her condition was critical, so I had to rush her to the hospital in my arms as she was about to lose consciousness. I had to grab her and take her to the closest hospital across Parallel, two blocks away. This was the first time I had taken her to the hospital since she'd split her chin by falling off my bicycle allegedly before, although it wasn't the last. Interestingly, whenever she got involved with a new group of criminals, she wound up in the hospital both times, and both times I took her there. She had no energy to lift her head out of the toilet bowl. As soon as I entered the hospital with her, the staff and I had to put her in a wheelchair. They took her inside and 20 minutes later when I was sitting by her bed, she already felt better with an IV dripping slowly into her vein, but she was unable to move; she was lying in her hospital bed, barely able to open her eyes to look at me. She was between life and death, or between real life and just a dream. I remembered less than a year earlier she was so full of life and happy and healthy when I put her up on that set of chairs that night when we took off the 'for sale' sign. The doctors told me after she fell asleep that they wanted to rinse her stomach, but she didn't authorize that. I was not fully aware that she was on drugs time to time or all the time and with what kind of people she was associated with. She almost only showed up at home in September 2014 when she overdosed. I was in love and worried for her so much, so I filled out the forms while they treated her in the hospital. I prayed to God to save her, asking for Him to show her the Truth. All I had was a prayer—50/50 if it worked. And I remembered that two years before, I had prayed for the life of our kitten Sabrina was playing with, making friends. This time, however, I had to rush to the hospital, not the vet, with my 20-year-old girlfriend who would soon be 21 in October 2014. And I felt like Sabrina, trying to make friends again but by the wrong people was the reason why I, an atheist, was praying for a puppy or a kitten or a bunny's life this time again. I didn't know that lies and secrets were eating away at her from deep inside once in a while as well, it wasn't just the drugs that were killing her insides like cancer. Just like her brother's intestines silently began to consume him and her, unbeknownst to them, but I could almost sense it like a dog if I could not see it, smell it inside them like X-ray. They were unaware of what my eyes had seen, as I watched their vibrations and faces silently change.

Don’t make me beg.” “I’d love nothing more.” She pushes on my shoulder with a single finger. “Ask me again. On your knees.” Dahlia is the only woman I would enthusiastically get down on my knees for, and I prove it to her as I follow her order. I tease her hip with the pad of my thumb. “Put me out of my misery and say yes.” “That’s possible?” Her eyes gleam. “Hilarious.” “Fine. I’ll join you, but only because you’re doing that sad puppy dog look again.

I don’t want a puppy in my life I have to break in and re-train. I want the older dog that is smart enough to realize he needs the hand that feeds him. I want the one that’s loyal to the person who loves him, and respects how she will feel about another woman he’s been with hanging around and getting really friendly with his body for all to see. I have my own position within the MC world now, and being a woman already makes it that much harder for me to have a modicum of respect. How do you think it looks when you show your own crew that you respect me so little that you allow other women to climb all over you, kiss you, and rub you down in front of them while attempting to claim me in any way? It makes me look weak and unworthy. And it hurts too, but that’s my own cross to bear.” With that, I turned and left

And I get it, you know, from his perspective. Younger girls demand less--or at least, they demand different sorts of things. It's like how you might get a puppy, to keep an old dog young. Gee, thanks, I said. That's hardly a flattering comparison, is it? But what's in it of you? He's steady, I said. Steady is good.

But I don’t want you to go,” Adam whined. “Yes, both me and my ass are very aware of that.” Adam cupped said ass. “I’m not letting you shower until you say it.” “Say what?” Noah asked, blinking up at him with mock innocence. “You know what.” Adam gave him the big, sad puppy dog eyes. “Please?” They were so contrived, yet they worked every fucking time. “Fine.” Noah flushed. It was such a stupid, embarrassingly sweet ritual they’d created. One that would make Noah cringe if he saw it in a book or movie. Hell, he would probably murder to keep it quiet because it was just too precious for two twenty-something-year-old killers. But Adam loved hearing it. And often. Noah didn’t know exactly why. Still, he sighed. “I maybe love you.” A wide grin spread across Adam’s face. “I maybe love you, too.” They were building a life together on that maybe. And it was a good one. More than Noah could ever have imagined.

an Aussiedoodle’s needs are less expensive than what is required for most other breeds. The following are recommended items: ● Crate ● Bed ● Leash ● Doggie bags for walks ● Collar ● Tags ● Puppy food ●Water and food bowls (sharing a water bowl is usually okay, but your puppy needs her own food dish if you have multiple dogs)

But sometimes the right dog just happens to come along. A smart dog. A loving dog. A helpful dog. A brave and independent dog...a good dog.

I am often intrigued by the coupling between pet and human. What was it about this particular cat? Why a mouse and not a gerbil? What did this puppy do that stopped you in your tracks and made you say, “Come home with me”? Unlike choosing a human partner, pet owners aren’t usually set up by well-meaning friends. They haven’t filled out a detailed online survey that ascertains compatibility. Rather they rely on instant attraction and trust a gut feeling, an intangible instinct that more often then not ends up being exactly right.

Some of the reasons people want Newfoundland’s: • I want a dog that’s good with children. • I want a Newf because it loves the water. • I saw one once; he was the most beautiful do I ever saw. • I love that mellow, laid-back temperament. • I love their glossy shiny coats. They have the softest fur. They’re just wonderful to pet. • I want a really big dog. A really big dog. • I like that they’re so devoted. I have always wanted a dog that loves me best. • I’m very active. I love to hike, and camp, and I keep in shape running every day. A Newf can keep me company. • I like that they don’t need a lot of exercise. • They’re really expensive, but if I save up, I can afford to buy one. • They’re rare, and they cost a lot. I can buy a female, breed her, and make lots of money. • I work from 9 to 5. Because he’s placid, a Newf will handle my long absences okay. • They’re good house dogs. I want my dog in the house with me all the time, sleeping on the foot of my bed at night.

Of course, there was more to raising a puppy than basic training. If I had learned nothing else in the Dog Project, it was how to communicate better. Dogs come ready-made to soak up the social rules of the household. It was our human inconsistencies that made it difficult for them.

Although behaviorist experiments dominate the canine research literature, there have been a few experiments demonstrating social learning between dogs. An old experiment found that puppies that observe littermates pulling a cart by a string can copy that behavior. Another study showed that puppies that watched their mother, a police dog, search for narcotics did better when learning this task compared to puppies that did not observe their mother first.

that he learns what has to be done faster and effectively. Below are some guidelines that will help you potty train with no problems

Once we'd balled up our burrito wrappers and tossed them into the trash, Jake and I walked several blocks from El Farolito to the home of Gus, a rescued shepherd mix that I walked a few afternoons each week. Jake sat on the stoop while I ran upstairs. As usual, Gus was waiting for me at the door of his apartment,; I could hear his tail pounding the floor as I turned the key in the lock. Once I got inside, he hopped around me, nipping delicately at my fingers, nails clackety-clacking at the floor, his tail an ecstatic black blur. I knelt down in front of him, pressed his floppy, expressive ears flat back against his head, and planted a kiss on the side of his long, black schnoz. He whined happily, his whole body shimmying. Gus was one of those dogs who had an entirely different personality at home, where his sense of security gave him the confidence to be joyous and goofy. Out on the street, the shelter pup in him came out and he turned skittish and sorrowful, his tan quotation mark eyebrows pressing together to turn his forehead into a series of of anxious wrinkles. Needless to say, I was gaga for Gus and his layered personality. Downstairs, I could see right away that Jake loved dogs as much as I did. I had to warn him not to try too hard with Gus; too much attention from a stranger would only make Gus more nervous out there in the big loud world. Jake managed to restrain himself for half a block, but soon was cooing down to Gus, running his hand down the length of his silky black-and-tan coat, and passing him a little piece of chorizo from a napkin that he'd somehow slipped into his pocket at El Farolito without me noticing. Gus pressed himself against Jack's leg and looked adoringly up at him as he gobbled the meat, his tail for a moment wagging as freely as it did at home.