Schnauzer Quotes

I asked this heroic pet lover how it felt to have died for a schnauzer named Teddy. Salvador Biagiani was philosophical. He said it sure beat dying for absolutely nothing in the Viet Nam War.

But it was so much more. In that white blouse you wore, you looked like Grace Kelly, sharing a joke with a schnauzer, then you smiled at me and i was included, the three of us alone together. I thought, there's a woman I could die for.

The Schnauzer listens to jazz. I listen to jazz because he likes it, and I have even gone to jazz concerts with him, but truthfully I would rather listen to retarded children pounding on pan lids with wooden spoons.

Josh? Can you come to my room?” My wolfish grin broke some of the tension on her face. “Oh, stop. There’s a spider. I need you to kill it. Please. Before it disappears and I have to burn my whole house down.” I laughed. “Should I get my gun or…?” She bounced nervously. “Josh, I’m serious. I hate them. Please help me.” I pulled a few tissues from the box on my nightstand. “You know, you seem too fearless to be afraid of spiders.” “A black widow killed my schnauzer when I was a kid. Embracing a lifelong debilitating fear of spiders is cheaper than therapy.” She stopped in the doorway of her room like there was an invisible force field, and I almost bumped into her back.

In what way is a howling, demon-filled void preferable to a schnauzer?

This morning, thanks to a controlled near-death experience, I was lucky enough to meet, at the far end of the blue tunnel, a man named Salvatore Biagini. Last July 8th, Mr. Biagini, a retired construction worker, age seventy, suffered a fatal heart attack while rescuing his beloved schnauzer, Teddy, from an assault by an unrestrained pit bull named Chele, in Queens. The pit bull, with no previous record of violence against man or beast, jumped a four-foot fence in order to have at Teddy. Mr. Biagini, an unarmed man with a history of heart trouble, grabbed him, allowing the schnauzer to run away. So the pit bull bit Mr. Biagini in several places and then Mr. Biagini's heart quit beating, never to beat again. I asked this heroic pet lover how it felt to have died for a schnauzer named Teddy. Salvador Biagini was philosophical. He said it sure as heck beat dying for absolutely nothing in the Viet Nam War.

If you need to reach me, or send me anything I'll hopefully have access to email, but who knows how alert I'll be...Please don't ask too many questions about what the logistics look like, or where and when I'll be where and when- we just don't know that right now and will not for a little while. FOR INSTANCE: Good message: Wish Max well! No need to reply! Bad message: When is Max going to the bathroom, and in what city -- I'd like to bring my schnauzer to visit him; he's a good luck healing massage schnauzer from Ireland. Is Max going to die? How often will Max die? Can he attend my event in four months? I love all of you very much, and am extremely grateful for your support.

It was turning out to be an anxious Christmas season. Too many were the early mornings spent sitting at the table, insomniac in the gray dawn, thinking to myself, Eggs would be good. Not for eating but for the viscous wrath of my ovobarrage. It seemed only a matter of time before I was lobbing my edible artillery out the window at the army of malefactors who daily made my life such a buzzing carnival of annoyance. I could almost feel the satisfying, sloshy heft of my weapons as I imagined them leaving my hands and raining down upon my targets: the pair of schnauzers two doors down, with their loathsome, skittish dispositions, barking and yelping all day long; their owner, with her white hair styled like Marlene Dietrich's in Blond Venus, who allows them to pee freely on the garbage that some poor sanitation worker then has to pick up; the leather-clad schmuck immediately next door, a cigar-smoking casual life-ruiner with his mufflerless motorcycle. All would taste my All Natural, Vegetarian Feed, Grade A Extra Large brand of justice!

Most of all Ginny--part Schnauzer, part Siberian Husky, part angel from heaven--has taught me the most important lesson in life, that life is not worth living without love, that giving love is more rewarding than getting it, and that the humblest creatures, the least advantaged creatures, are worthy of the greatest outpouring of love. It's a spiritual message, that all life is precious (matters), all life is short, and that, just as human beings have immortal souls, so do animals have immortal souls, because they, too, were created by God. (word in parentheses by poster)

Nobody can remember when the sperm became large enough to see, but we agree on this: once that point was reached, every generation topped the last. They went from guppy to goldfish, and before long they could frighten a schnauzer, and not much later even Great Danes made way for them.... Sperm are ancient creatures, single-minded as coelacanths. They are drawn to the sun, the moon, and dots and disks of all descriptions, including periods, stop signs, and stars. They worship at nail heads, doorknobs and tennis balls. More than one life has been saved by a penny tossed in the air.

I leaned against my car and sighed, rubbing a hand over my eyes. “It’s been a long day, James. A long, somewhat odd day. Let’s not cap it off with me sitting in the yard talking to a cat, okay?”   James gave a derisive snort—strangely suiting his feline persona—and shifted into his dragon form, which is about the size of a schnauzer. He flapped his wings once and settled in, puffing a ring of smoke at me while he did.   I tried not to sigh in exasperation. “Yes, that’s much better . Talking to a cat was weird, but speaking to a miniature dragon completely fulfills my desire for normalcy.” He blew a thin jet of fire at my shoes. I jumped up with a yelp, and he snickered.   “Cute...” James had three forms: cat, small schnauzer-sized dragon, and human. The third had been a surprise until I moved in and asked him how he’d managed to do all of Douglas’s errands with no opposable thumbs. He’d morphed, poked me on the head with one of said opposable thumbs, and finished by stealing my yogurt. I still hadn’t quite figured James out.

Men as Friends" I have a few which is news to me Tom drops by in the mornings with his travel mug my mother would call it a coffee klatch we review our terrible histories with fathers and talk about the father he’s become and how much it will cost to replace gutters the ice brought down and then there’s soft-spoken Harvey with whom I enjoy long pauses in conversation about how they raised the Nelson town hall and put a foundation underneath during which we both look at Mt. Monadnock and then down at the ground and then back at each other silence precipitating the pretty weather we share before he goes inside for lunch when I had to pack up my office Tom boxed and loaded books into my car I didn’t think he’d want to but his idea of friendship includes carrying heavy things at the dog park the retired Marine with the schnauzer asked do you have a husband I replied I don’t care for men in that way as a Marine James mostly played cards on a supply ship now he mostly hunts and fishes climbs his orchard ladder for my Cortlands and in trout season leaves, in my fridge, two rainbows

He needed to concentrate, not sniff the air like a schnauzer every time the woman walked by.

She was one of the smallest Schnauzers Morgan had ever met, weighing in at a whopping twelve pounds. The Pak-Reynoldses kept her silver beard precisely trimmed and her coat cut tight and neat against her body, leaving her leg fur a bit longer so it looked like she was wearing little pants.

This is going to be big.” When Coop’s head tipped to the side like a confused schnauzer, he added, “The hotel room of some big-time penis was just violently invaded.” “It’s pianist.

The yellow lab is Petey. My grandmother was a big fan of the original Little Rascals.” She pointed at the schnauzer. “That’s the General. Not General. The General, because he bosses everyone around. And the boxer is Todd. I can’t explain it—he just looks like a Todd.

A black widow killed my schnauzer when I was a kid. Embracing a lifelong debilitating fear of spiders is cheaper than therapy.

Talk about your ideal scenario, your philosophy, and anything you can think of. Would you like to burn incense and have your baby ushered into the world by a troupe of Tibetan monks? Great. Have your partner give birth standing on one foot while riding horseback? Have the delivery filmed live for a new reality show? Have the entire medical team speak only Mandarin Chinese so that your baby will be able to begin life bilingual? Have the baby licked clean by your pet schnauzer rather than cleaned up by the nurses? Wonderful.

Jeremy’s T-Shirts by book: Hard As It Gets “ROUTE 69” “This guy loves BACON” with two hands with their thumbs pointing back at him “Orgasm Donor” with a red cross Big Johnson’s Tattoo Parlor, “You’re going to feel more than a Little Prick” “I’m not Santa but you can still sit on my lap” Hard As You Can Log-holding beaver that says, “Are you looking at my wood?” “I put the long in schlong” Hard to Hold On To "Blink if you're horny" Hard to Come By Hand pointing downward and the words, "May I suggest the sausage?" Charlie (who starts borrowing Jeremy's t-shirts): A smiling fire extinguished that says, "I put out" Charlie: Schnauzer wearing a saddle that says, "Weiner Rides, 25 cents" "HEAD Foundation. Please give generously" Charlie: Mr. T with the words "Mr. T Shirt" There's a party in my pants. You're invited.

AGATHA, an old Labradoodle ATHENA, a brown teacup Poodle ATTICUS, an imposing Neapolitan Mastiff, with cascading jowls BELLA, a Great Dane, Athena’s closest pack mate BENJY, a resourceful and conniving Beagle BOBBIE, an unfortunate Duck Toller DOUGIE, a Schnauzer, friend to Benjy FRICK, a Labrador Retriever FRACK, a Labrador Retriever, Frick’s litter mate LYDIA, a Whippet and Weimaraner cross, tormented and nervous MAJNOUN, a black Poodle, briefly referred to as ‘Lord Jim’ or simply ‘Jim’ MAX, a mutt who detests poetry PRINCE, a mutt who composes poetry, also called Russell or Elvis RONALDINHO, a mutt who deplores the condescension of humans ROSIE,

dinner in their house. As she walked along the canal, Moira saw a small man surrounded by dogs walking towards her. It was Noel’s father, Charles Lynch, marching along with dogs of different sizes and shapes: a spaniel, a poodle and a miniature schnauzer trit-trotting on their leads on one side and a huge Great

Schnauzers,” Priscilla said. “Those awful jumpy dogs that bite you if you look at them.” […] “Give me a retriever,” Priscilla said. She talked rapidly and with absolute certitude. “Or a sheep dog. Not some jittery creature that barks incessantly, and when they’re not barking they’re biting.

In the few weeks we've been in residence, Schatzi has kicked dirt in the eye of a Chihuahua, resulting in a squealing of eardrum-perforating shrillness. She nipped the fingers of a very nice young woman walking her terrier mix when she tried to pet her. She growled at a Yorkie so menacingly the dog had immediate violently explosive diarrhea. All over my leg. It was like some invisible hand just squeezed her in the middle and hot liquid poop shot out of her with such velocity that despite being only like eight inches tall, she hit me from ankle to over the knee. I'm still grateful she wasn't a bigger dog. Schatzi was never mean to other dogs, or owners for that matter, when we were in the West Loop. She had her neighborhood pals, Otto the black Lab, who always tried to give her gifts of mangy tennis balls, Lucy, the sweet old arthritic collie who would nuzzle Schatzi like a doting grandmother, and her best buddy, Klaus, a giant schnauzer, the perfect replica of Schatzi herself, just supersized. They would romp around and then put their square bearded heads together and have what appeared to be very serious conversations about things. Jimmy, Klaus's dad, would always lean over and ask, "Do you think they're planning to invade Poland?" which never failed to make me laugh.

Picking the breed is important. I have a friend who got a schnauzer for his wife. I told him I thought it was a good trade.

Albert’s our dog. He’s a black Miniature Schnauzer. Bit like a child though, I suppose. They’re super clever.

Stupid dog, do you realize you have actually LITERALLY bitten the hand that feeds you?" Schatzi looks at me with a withering stare, arching her bushy eyebrows haughtily, and then turns her back to me. I stick out my tongue at her back, and go to the kitchen to freshen her water bowl. Damnable creature requires fresh water a zillion times a day. God forbid a fleck of dust is dancing on the surface, or it has gone two degrees beyond cool, I get the laser look of death. Once there was a dead fly in it, and she looked in the bowl, crossed the room, looked me dead in the eye, and squatted and peed on my shoes. I usually call her Shitzi or Nazi. I suppose I'm lucky she deigns to drink tap water. Our bare tolerance of each other is mutual, and affection between us is nil. The haughty little hellbeast was my sole inheritance from my grandmother who passed away two years ago. A cold, exacting woman who raised me in my mother's near-complete absence, Annelyn Stroudt insisted on my calling her Grand-mère, despite the fact that she put the manic in Germanic, ancestry-wise. But apparently when her grandparents schlepped here mother from Berlin to Chicago, they took a year in Paris first, and adopted many things Française. So Grand-mère it was. Grand-mère Annelyn also insisted on dressing for dinner, formal manners in every situation, letterpress stationary, and physical affection saved for the endless string of purebred miniature schnauzers she bought one after the other, and never offered to the granddaughter who also lived under her roof. Her clear disappointment in me must have rubbed off on Schatzi, who, despite having lived with me since Grand-mère died neatly and quietly in her sleep at the respectable age of eighty-nine, has never seen me as anything but a source of food, and a firm hand at the end of the leash. She dotes on Grant, but he sneaks her nibbles when he cooks, and coos to her in flawless French. Sometimes I wonder if the spirit of Grand-mère transferred into the dog upon death, and if the chilly indifference to me is just a manifestation of my grandmother's continued disapproval from beyond the grave. Schatzi wanders over to her bowl, sniffs it, sneers at me one last time for good measure, shakes her head to ensure her ears are in place, like a society matron checking her coif, and settles down to drink.

Schnoodles are, as the name suggests, a cross between a Schnauzer and a Poodle. It is one of the most popular hybrid breeds, due to its easygoing nature, friendly temperament, and high intelligence. Schnoodles are, for the most part, very easy to train (a genetic gift from the Poodle, whose intelligence and trainability has made it a favorite amongst dog owners for hundreds of years). Despite having a long coat, they don’t shed much and are hypoallergenic, like their Poodle parents. Their slightly curly hair comes in a wide variety of colors—white, black, gray, silver, tan, apricot, gold, and every shade in between!

while a Schnoodle bred from a Miniature Schnauzer and a Toy Poodle will usually be very small. Most Schnoodles are bred from miniature parents, meaning they will be small.

most popular dogs in the world! Schnoodles inherit the Poodle’s curly coat, remarkably high intelligence, and easygoing nature. For the most part, Schnauzers and Poodles are bred within their weight classes (Miniature Schnauzer with Toy Poodle, etc.), creating three different types of Schnoodles;

Schnoodle The Miniature Schnoodle is the smallest breed variant and the most common type of Schnoodle. It is created by breeding a Miniature Schnauzer with a Toy Poodle. This tiny, energetic, adorable Schnoodle can weigh anywhere from 5 to 15 pounds (2.2 to 6.8 kilograms) when

The Standard Schnoodle, or the medium-sized Schnoodle, is a cross between the Miniature Poodle and the Standard Schnauzer. It’s more energetic than the Miniature Schnoodle, which is more suited to indoor and apartment living than its larger counterpart.

One of the Schnoodle’s best traits is its intelligence. The Schnoodle is an incredibly smart dog, which makes it easy to train. Who says that dogs can’t be both cute and smart? The Schnoodle is so smart because it is bred from two of the most intelligent dog breeds in the world: the Schnauzer and the Poodle. In Stanley Coren’s famed book, The Intelligence of Dogs, the author gathered information and performed tests to rank different breeds of dogs regarding their intelligence. Over time, Mr. Coren’s findings became more or less commonly accepted by most breeders, trainers, and dog enthusiasts as a viable tool to measure dog intelligence.

The Poodle was ranked in second place, just behind the Border Collie. While the Schnauzer didn’t do quite so well, it still ranked very high—the Miniature, Standard and Giant Schnauzers are respectively listed at the 12th, 18th and 28th places on the listing.

Möchtest du was trinken? Wasser, Fanta, Kaffee... Bourbon?' Hinter dem großen Schnauzer konnte man seinen Mund nur erahnen, aber seine Augen hinter den ovalen Brillengläsern lächelten, als er mir ein Glas reichte. 'Willst du mich zum Alkoholiker machen?

One African grey I know, Throckmorton, pronounces his name with Shakespearean precision. Named for the man who served as an intermediary for Mary, Queen of Scots (and was hanged in 1584 for conspiring against Queen Elizabeth I), Throckmorton has a wide repertoire of household sounds, including the voices of his family members, Karin and Bob, which he uses to his advantage. He calls out Karin’s name in a “Bob voice” that Karin describes as spot-on; she can’t tell the difference. He also mimics the different rings of Karin’s and Bob’s cell phones. One of his favorite ploys is to summon Bob from the garage by imitating his cell phone ring. When Bob comes running, Throckmorton “answers” the call in Bob’s voice: “Hello! Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.” Then he finishes with the flat ring tone of hanging up. Throckmorton imitates the glug, glug sound of Karin drinking water and the slurping sound of Bob trying to cool his hot coffee while he sips it, as well as the bark of the family’s former dog, a Jack Russell terrier dead nine years. He has also nailed the bark of the current family pet, a miniature schnauzer, and will join him in a chorus of barking, “making my house sound like a kennel,” says Karin. “Again, he’s pitch perfect; no one can tell it’s a parrot barking and not a dog.” Once, when Bob had a cold, Throckmorton added to his corpus the sounds of nose blowing, coughing, and sneezing. And another time, when Bob came home from a business trip with a terrible stomach bug, Throckmorton made sick-to-my-stomach sounds for the next six months. For one long stretch, his preferred “Bob” word was “Shhhhhhhhiiiit.

Britain is replete with Dobermans, schnauzers, boxers, Boston terriers, and Great Danes proudly swishing and twitching long tails and full ears. And Britain is not alone, in fact; most of Europe, Labrador, Newfoundland, New Zealand, and Australia have outlawed ear cropping.

privates being referred to as a Vienna sausage, a schnauzer tail, a schmeckle, a dinky winky, a baby carrot, a baby’s thumb and a wee nug.

We walk up to the counter. Surprisingly, there is no line. I recognize the barista as a young woman whose miniature schnauzer I killed last year. She was reading a book at the city park, letting the pup run about. I cornered it behind some bushes and removed all four of its legs with a pair of garden loppers. It was alive when I left but the newspaper reported the next day that it had died. I still have the legs. Sara orders a vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin. I order a red eye and a brownie. I pay for both orders even though Sara says she is happy to pay.