Terrier Dog Quotes

I well knew the rules to follow with our training Dogs: Speak when you're spoken to. Keep out of the way. Obey all orders. Get killed on your own time.

Thus went my first Court Day. I think I'm going to puke.

Picture a tall, dark figure, surrounded by cornfields... NO, YOU CAN'T RIDE A CAT. WHO EVER HEARD OF THE DEATH OF RATS RIDING A CAT? THE DEATH OF RATS WOULD RIDE SOME KIND OF DOG. Picture more fields, a great horizon-spanning network of fields, rolling in gentle waves... DON'T ASK ME I DON'T KNOW. SOME KIND OF TERRIER, MAYBE. ...fields of corn, alive, whispering in the breeze... RIGHT, AND THE DEATH OF FLEAS CAN RIDE IT TOO. THAT WAY YOU KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE. ...awaiting the clockwork of the seasons. METAPHORICALLY.

I will be known forever as the Puppy who chased a cutpurse and caught fish garbage instead. My descendants will pretend I'm not in their bloodline. No – no one will want to make descendants with me. [from Beka Cooper's journal of her first day as a new Dog i.e. cop]

Shepley walked out of his bedroom pulling a T-shirt over his head. His eyebrows pushed together. “Did they just leave?” “Yeah,” I said absently, rinsing my cereal bowl and dumping Abby’s leftover oatmeal in the sink. She’d barely touched it. “Well, what the hell? Mare didn’t even say goodbye.” “You knew she was going to class. Quit being a cry baby.” Shepley pointed to his chest. “I’m the cry baby? Do you remember last night?” “Shut up.” “That’s what I thought.” He sat on the couch and slipped on his sneakers. “Did you ask Abby about her birthday?” “She didn’t say much, except that she’s not into birthdays.” “So what are we doing?” “Throwing her a party.” Shepley nodded, waiting for me to explain. “I thought we’d surprise her. Invite some of our friends over and have America take her out for a while.” Shepley put on his white ball cap, pulling it down so low over his brows I couldn’t see his eyes. “She can manage that. Anything else?” “How do you feel about a puppy?” Shepley laughed once. “It’s not my birthday, bro.” I walked around the breakfast bar and leaned my hip against the stool. “I know, but she lives in the dorms. She can’t have a puppy.” “Keep it here? Seriously? What are we going to do with a dog?” “I found a Cairn Terrier online. It’s perfect.” “A what?” “Pidge is from Kansas. It’s the same kind of dog Dorothy had in the Wizard of Oz.” Shepley’s face was blank. “The Wizard of Oz.” “What? I liked the scarecrow when I was a little kid, shut the fuck up.” “It’s going to crap every where, Travis. It’ll bark and whine and … I don’t know.” “So does America … minus the crapping.” Shepley wasn’t amused. “I’ll take it out and clean up after it. I’ll keep it in my room. You won’t even know it’s here.” “You can’t keep it from barking.” “Think about it. You gotta admit it’ll win her over.” Shepley smiled. “Is that what this is all about? You’re trying to win over Abby?” My brows pulled together. “Quit it.” His smile widened. “You can get the damn dog…” I grinned with victory. “…if you admit you have feelings for Abby.” I frowned in defeat. “C’mon, man!” “Admit it,” Shepley said, crossing his arms. What a tool. He was actually going to make me say it. I looked to the floor, and everywhere else except Shepley’s smug ass smile. I fought it for a while, but the puppy was fucking brilliant. Abby would flip out (in a good way for once), and I could keep it at the apartment. She’d want to be there every day. “I like her,” I said through my teeth. Shepley held his hand to his ear. “What? I couldn’t quite hear you.” “You’re an asshole! Did you hear that?” Shepley crossed his arms. “Say it.” “I like her, okay?” “Not good enough.” “I have feelings for her. I care about her. A lot. I can’t stand it when she’s not around. Happy?” “For now,” he said, grabbing his backpack off the floor.

I found a Cairn Terrier online. It’s perfect.” “A what?” “Pidge is from Kansas. It’s the same kind of dog Dorothy had in the Wizard of Oz.” Shepley’s face was blank. “The Wizard of Oz.” “What? I liked the scarecrow when I was a little kid, shut the fuck up.” “It’s going to crap every where, Travis. It’ll bark and whine and … I don’t know.” “So does America … minus the crapping.

They say every dog has its day, Ganapathi, but for this terrier twilight came before tea-time.

People are all exactly alike. There's no such thing as a race and barely such a thing as an ethnic group. If we were dogs, we'd be the same breed. George Bush and an Australian Aborigine have fewer differences than a Lhasa apso and a toy fox terrier. A Japanese raised in Riyadh would be an Arab. A Zulu raised in New Rochelle would be an orthodontist. People are all the same, though their circumstances differ terribly.

Fox-terriers are born with about four times as much original sin in them as other dogs are, and it will take years and years of patient effort on the part of us Christians to bring about any appreciable reformation in the rowdiness of the fox-terrier nature.

Everything is inspiration. If you look at the world as the incredible place it is, then each moment is a feast.

Then I'll Dog him, and I'll catch him, and I'll cage him again,' I said. 'And again, and again, and again, until his patron tires if him and the Snake tires of me.' 'Or until he kills you,' someone else said. 'Nobody's killing Beka,' Rosto told them, his eyes turned to black stone.

Mary Queen of Scots had a little dog, a Skye terrier, that was devoted to her. Moments after Mary was beheaded, the people who were watching saw her skirts moving about and they thought her headless body was trying to get itself to its feet. But the movement turned out to be her dog, which she had carried to the block with her, hidden in her skirts. Mary Stuart is supposed to have faced her execution with grace and courage (she wore a scarlet chemise to suggest she was being martyred), but I don’t think she could have been so brave if she had not secretly been holding tight to her Skye terrier, feeling his warm, silky fur against her trembling skin.

Terriers are problem solvers. They'll do what you tell them, but only if it happens to be in line with what they wanted to do anyway.

I introduced Putin to our Scottish terrier, Barney. He wasn't very impressed. On my next trip to Russia, Vladimir asked if I wanted to meet his dog, Koni. Sure, I said. As we walked the birch-lined grounds of his dacha, a big black Labrador came charging across the lawn. With a twinkle in his eye, Vladimir said, "Bigger, stronger, and faster than Barney." Prime Minister Stephen Harper of Canada [said], "You're lucky he only showed you his dog.

No man as godly as George, the only fault he finds with God is that he made folk with too few orifices. If George could meet a woman with a quinny under her armpit, he would call out 'Glory be' and set her up in a house and visit her every day, until the novelty wore off. Nothing is forbidden to George, you see. He'd go to it with a terrier bitch if she wagged her tail at him and said bow-wow.' For once he is struck silent. He knows he will never get it out of his mind, the picture of George in a hairy grapple with a little ratting dog.

Put another way, I love all of you dog lovers, but I have to spoil your fun a little with a fundamental truth. There is, in an important evolutionary sense, no such thing as a specific breed of dog. If a Great Dane has sex with a dachshund, you get a dog. If a Standard Poodle has sex with a Jack Russell terrier, you get a dog. If a mutt has sex with a so-called purebred, you get a dog.

Julia had a friend, a man named Dennys, who was as a boy a tremendously gifted artist. They had been friends since they were small, and she once showed me some of the drawings he made when he was ten or twelve: little sketches of birds pecking at the ground, of his face, round and blank, of his father, the local veterinarian, his hand smoothing the fur of a grimacing terrier. Dennys’s father didn’t see the point of drawing lessons, however, and so he was never formally schooled. But when they were older, and Julia went to university, Dennys went to art school to learn how to draw. For the first week, he said, they were allowed to draw whatever they wanted, and it was always Dennys’s sketches that the professor selected to pin up on the wall for praise and critique. But then they were made to learn how to draw: to re-draw, in essence. Week two, they only drew ellipses. Wide ellipses, fat ellipses, skinny ellipses. Week three, they drew circles: three-dimensional circles, two-dimensional circles. Then it was a flower. Then a vase. Then a hand. Then a head. Then a body. And with each week of proper training, Dennys got worse and worse. By the time the term had ended, his pictures were never displayed on the wall. He had grown too self-conscious to draw. When he saw a dog now, its long fur whisking the ground beneath it, he saw not a dog but a circle on a box, and when he tried to draw it, he worried about proportion, not about recording its doggy-ness.

A few languid clouds moved inland over our heads. A little high plane was gamboling among them like a terrier in a henyard.

I decide to give them names. The pit bull is Ed. The terrier is Emily. I like giving human names to dogs. It’s more respectable that way. It tells them they’re one of us and reminds us of the same.

I WAS SITTING IN a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster. It was just after dark. A blustery March wind whipped the steam coming out of the manholes, and people hurried along the sidewalks with their collars turned up. I was stuck in traffic two blocks from the party where I was heading. Mom stood fifteen feet away. She had tied rags around her shoulders to keep out the spring chill and was picking through the trash while her dog, a black-and-white terrier mix, played at her feet.

Every dog deserves a place to live. Every dog deserves a place in your heart. Every dog deserves a place to walk. Every dog deserves a place to run. John Duncan.

The question at this age is what kind of dog you will shortly resemble. She will be a beagle, Prue a terrier. Pamela will be an Afghan, or something equally unearthly.

Sheridan had a pugnacity that refused to quit, and Sherman described him as “a persevering terrier dog, honest, modest, plucky and smart enough.” Quite unlike Grant,

His face is long and mournful, like a sheep’s, but with the large full eyes of a dog, spaniel not terrier. His skin is pale and looks unwholesomely tender, like the skin under a scab.

Give up all the wild ideas that buzz round you like wasps. Or like bluebottles. […] Find a nice, ordinary girl, not too attractive or you’ll be jealous all the time, not too bright or you’ll be anxious all the time, not too rich or you’ll have nothing to strive for, not too original or she’ll upset people. There are plenty of them, and all of them are available to a young postman like you. Those are the terms offered.” The terrier had come to a sudden standstill, as if he had been a white gun dog on one of the estates. “You don’t live like that,” said Robin from the bed. “I don’t live at all,” replied Rosetta. “Haven’t you realized?” “Perhaps I have.” Now Robin was staring at her: momentarily still that muggy evening; for seconds rigid as the dog. Rosetta smiled. “I am the person every postman meets in the end.” “I’m a provisional postman only. I told you that clearly,” remarked Robin, starting once more to relax. “Do what I tell you. What else is there for you? Only wasps and bluebottles.

Anyway, the odds were against you. Most lost big, while only a few—” Rand paused dramatically “—won big.” “Since you’re here, I suppose you won big.” He smiled. “Yelena, I’m always going to bet on you. You’re like one of the Commander’s terriers. A tiny, yappy dog you wouldn’t look at twice, but once it grabs your pant leg, it won’t let go.” “Poison the dog’s meat and it won’t bother you anymore.

She climbed into the carriage and sat down across from the other lady. Pip hopped inside. Miss Royle smiled down at the terrier. "Oh, what a sweet little dog!" Pip wagged his tail and placed his front paws on Miss Royle's skirts for a pat and Bridget began to suspect he was a flirt.

As they entered, a wire-haired fox terrier of irreproachable breeding, rose from the hearth-rug and came to meet them with leisurely dignity. Marcus effected an introduction hastily. ‘Foon,’ he said. ‘Written “Featherstonehaugh”.’ Somewhat to his host’s embarrassment Mr Campion shook hands with the dog, who seemed to appreciate the courtesy, for he followed them back to the hearth-rug, waiting for them to be seated before he took up his position on the rug again, where he sat during the rest of the proceedings with the same air of conscious breeding which characterized his master.

As a matter of fact I don’t care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favourite Labrador, Bob, goodbye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing I don’t see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more. What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing’s getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something – and then they’re killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books – camouflaged different ways of course. And people like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a troublesome way of killing anyone really) and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villains singlehanded.

Nicky beguiled the morning by taking Bouncer to a neighbouring farm, and engaging in a rat-hunt which might have been more successful had not Bouncer jumped to an over-hasty conclusion that his first duty was to rid the world of the flea-ridden terrier who should have assisted him in his work of destroying all the rats in the big barn.

Terriers usually have their own agenda, kind of like cats, only with a lot more pointless animation. - Sydney Linden

The dog, a black Scottish Terrier, straight off a shortbread tin, sat on her lap and she was hugging it close.

To look at Montmorency you would imagine that he was an angel sent upon the earth, for some reason withheld from mankind, in the shape of a small fox-terrier. There is a sort of Oh-what-a-wicked-world-this-is-and-how-I-wish-I-could-do-something-to-make-it-better-and-nobler expression about Montmorency that has been known to bring the tears into the eyes of pious old ladies and gentlemen. When first he came to live at my expense, I never thought I should be able to get him to stop long. I used to sit down and look at him, as he sat on the rug and looked up at me, and think: “Oh, that dog will never live. He will be snatched up to the bright skies in a chariot, that is what will happen to him.” But, when I had paid for about a dozen chickens that he had killed; and had dragged him, growling and kicking, by the scruff of his neck, out of a hundred and fourteen street fights; and had had a dead cat brought round for my inspection by an irate female, who called me a murderer; and had been summoned by the man next door but one for having a ferocious dog at large, that had kept him pinned up in his own tool-shed, afraid to venture his nose outside the door for over two hours on a cold night; and had learned that the gardener, unknown to myself, had won thirty shillings by backing him to kill rats against time, then I began to think that maybe they’d let him remain on earth for a bit longer, after all. To hang about a stable, and collect a gang of the most disreputable dogs to be found in the town, and lead them out to march round the slums to fight other disreputable dogs, is Montmorency’s idea of “life;” and so, as I before observed, he gave to the suggestion of inns, and pubs., and hotels his most emphatic approbation.

The Master talked of buying a whalebone-and-steel-and-snow bull terrier, or a more formidable if more greedy Great Dane. But the Mistress wanted a collie. So they compromised by getting the collie.

He wasn't supposed to feel this way. He didn't even want to feel the way he did for the dog, for Creampuff-- Goddamnit Goddamnit "Goddamnit!" he snarled. Ginger blinked. Incredulous he explained: "They took my dog, Ginger. They stole my terrier." He popped each of his knuckles. "They didn't just abandon me after I got them through, after I kept them alive. They rubbed salt on my wound while they pissed in my eyes. I can't believe they stole my dog." Coburn grabbed the kid by his all too-clean shirt and shook him like a baby. "Listen. You're going to drive me to go get Creampuff, my terrier...

The little black dog dashed out and away down the street toward the beach. They got him back with difficulty but he continued to bark eagerly as if he were trying to tell his owners some thrilling secret.

Carlton, Sydney (1949-), painter and decorator. Those who argue that bestiality should be treated with understanding had a setback in 1998 when Carlton, a married man from Bradford, was sentenced to a year in prison for having intercourse with a Staffordshire bull terrier, named Badger. His defence was that Badger had made the first move. 'I can't help it if the dog took a liking to me,' he told the court. This was not accepted.

Before they even reached the front door, it opened and a small, silver-gray terrier came bounding out. He stopped a few yards away from Merritt and growled. "Hello, Wallace," she said with a faint smile, and stood still as he came to her. The terrier circled around her, sniffing at her skirts. In a moment he gazed up at her with bright eyes and a wagging tail, and let her pet him. "What a handsome boy you are," she exclaimed, smoothing his fur.

The first commandment of dog behavior: Thou shalt not hump. Thou shalt especially not hump in public. Thou shalt not hump thy neighbor’s wife, thy neighbor’s leg, or thy neighbor’s Jack Russell Terrier. - Belle, Dog Only Knows

She watched with amusement as Wallace paced restlessly around the overloaded settee, obviously trying to calculate how he too could sit there. "Wallace," Keir said dryly, "I dinna know where you think you'll find a blessed inch of empty space." The terrier persisted, however, hopping up near their feet and painstakingly crawling over their bodies. "Wallace will come to London with us, of course," Merritt said, reaching out swiftly to steady the dog as he wobbled.

Mom stood fifteen feet away. She had tied rags around her shoulders to keep out the spring chill and was picking through the trash while her dog, a black-and-white terrier mix, played at her feet. Mom’s gestures were all familiar - the way she tilted her head and thrust out her lower lip when studying items of potential value that she’d hoisted out of the Dumpster, the way her eyes widened with childish glee when she found something she liked. Her long hair was streaked with gray, tangled and matted, and her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, but still she reminded me of the mom she’d been when I was a kid, swan-diving off cliffs and painting in the desert and reading Shakespeare aloud. Her cheekbones were still high and strong, but the skin was parched and ruddy from all those winters and summers exposed to the elements. To the people walking by, she probably looked like any of the thousands of homeless people in New York City

All dogs are predators, but over thousands of generations, we’ve created sporting breeds to be exceptionally focused predators. All dogs like to dig and chase small prey, but terriers are superdriven to dig and find rodents. All dogs love to run, but greyhounds can run up to forty miles an hour, and huskies can run for hours and hours on end. All dogs have the natural ability to fight or wrestle with one another, but the bully breeds have been genetically engineered to fight to the death. The more pure the bloodline, the more that genetic “boost” will probably play a part in your dog’s behavior. That’s why some owners claim that their “mutts” make mellower pets, because, they theorize, their DNA has been somewhat diluted, and their breed-related drives diffused as a result.

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

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

After dinner Miss June and the family came, followed by the butler, the cook, the maids and grooms, the gardener and the kennel-man, and carols were sung for half an hour. Then presents were distributed to all the servants. At last, when goodnights and holiday greetings had been spoken, the dog and the girl were left alone in the glow of the Christmas tree.

She knelt in the mud and tried to pull the cord from his neck, but it had been tied terribly tight and her hands were trembling. She felt the duke crouch behind her, his arms reaching around her, warm and hard, and felt a moment's confusion before he leaned forward and murmured in her ear, "Here." He placed her opened chatelaine knife in her hands. She took it gratefully. "Thank you." Carefully she cut the cord and picked up the little dog, his body warm and rather smelly in her arms. The terrier immediately began licking her chin. Bridget inhaled on a sob, even as she felt the brush of the duke's tongue at the corner of her eye. "Your tears taste like salvation." His voice was deep, resonating against her back, and he almost sounded puzzled.

Doris loves Superman as well.unfortunately, she got knocked down by a van last year, and it was a big, long recovery for her, really. It took about six months, didn't it, before she was fully back to normal. She never gone back to normal. She's got a bionic leg now, which made her twice as fast and twice as stupid. You know, but she's just such good fun. But anyway,like she had a bit of a low point, you know, when she got really fed up, you know, with those stupid lampshade collars, you know, that they have on their head. Ugh, bumping into everything, she was walking about sighing. Ugh, like that, you know, and if you've ever been known or been with the terriers, but that ball of energy,you know, and she wasn't allowed to be for a walk or anything. It was awful. So to cheer her up, I bought her a little Superman outfit for dogs. When you get home, you look online. They are absolutely brilliant. You can get Wonder Woman and Darth Vader, all sorts. They're the funniest thing I have ever seen in my. The front paws, the front legs go in Super man's legs, you know, and it like covers up the paw with these little, red boot things on the bottom. And it comes up and ties around the neck, and there's tube stuff down from the front. So from the front, it's like a tiny, little Superman with a dog's head. And then, on the back there's this cape. So when she trots around, it looks like she's flying! Ah, it's brilliant! And she loves it. I couldn't get it off for about a week. It's honestly, they're absolutely brilliant, you must check it out. So anyway, tonight this is for Doris.

She sometimes takes her little brother for a walk round this way," explained Bingo. "I thought we would meet her and bow, and you could see her, you know, and then we would walk on." "Of course," I said, "that's enough excitement for anyone, and undoubtedly a corking reward for tramping three miles out of one's way over ploughed fields with tight boots, but don't we do anything else? Don't we tack on to the girl and buzz along with her?" "Good Lord!" said Bingo, honestly amazed. "You don't suppose I've got nerve enough for that, do you? I just look at her from afar off and all that sort of thing. Quick! Here she comes! No, I'm wrong!" It was like that song of Harry Lauder's where he's waiting for the girl and says, "This is her-r-r. No, it's a rabbut." Young Bingo made me stand there in the teeth of a nor'-east half-gale for ten minutes, keeping me on my toes with a series of false alarms, and I was just thinking of suggesting that we should lay off and give the rest of the proceedings a miss, when round the corner there came a fox-terrier, and Bingo quivered like an aspen. Then there hove in sight a small boy, and he shook like a jelly. Finally, like a star whose entrance has been worked up by the personnel of the ensemble, a girl appeared, and his emotion was painful to witness. His face got so red that, what with his white collar and the fact that the wind had turned his nose blue, he looked more like a French flag than anything else. He sagged from the waist upwards, as if he had been filleted. He was just raising his fingers limply to his cap when he suddenly saw that the girl wasn't alone. A chappie in clerical costume was also among those present, and the sight of him didn't seem to do Bingo a bit of good. His face got redder and his nose bluer, and it wasn't till they had nearly passed that he managed to get hold of his cap. The girl bowed, the curate said, "Ah, Little. Rough weather," the dog barked, and then they toddled on and the entertainment was over.

We were working on the idea about dogs’ Internet searches, and first we debated whether the sketch should feature real dogs or Henrietta and Viv in dog costumes (because cast members were always, unfailingly, trying to get more air time, we quickly went with the latter). Then we discussed where it should take place (the computer cluster in a public library, but, even though all this mattered for was the establishing shot, we got stalled on whether that library should be New York’s famous Main Branch building on Fifth Avenue, with the lion statues in front, a generic suburban library in Kansas City, or a generic suburban library in Jacksonville, Florida, which was where Viv was from). Then we really got stalled on the breeds of dogs. Out of loyalty to my stepfather and Sugar, I wanted at least one to be a beagle. Viv said that it would work best if one was really big and one was really little, and Henrietta said she was fine with any big dog except a German Shepherd because she’d been bitten by her neighbor’s German Shepherd in third grade. After forty minutes we’d decided on a St. Bernard and a Chihuahua—I eventually conceded that Chihuahuas were funnier than beagles. We decided to go with the Florida location for the establishing shot because the lions in front of the New York Main Branch could preempt or diminish the appearance of the St. Bernard. Then we’d arrived at the fun part, which was the search terms. With her mouth full of beef kebab, Viv said, “Am I adopted?” With my mouth full of spanakopita, I said, “Am I a good girl?” With her mouth full of falafel, Henrietta said, “Am I five or thirty-five?” “Why is thunder scary?” I said. “Discreet crotch-sniffing techniques,” Henrietta said. “Cheap mani-pedis in my area,” Viv said. “Oh, and cheapest self-driving car.” “Best hamburgers near me,” I said. “What is halitosis,” Henrietta said. “Halitosis what to do,” I said. “Where do humans pee,” Viv said. “Taco Bell Chihuahua male or female,” I said. “Target bull terrier married,” Viv said. “Lassie plastic surgery,” Henrietta said. “Funny cat videos,” I said. “Corgis embarrassing themselves YouTube,” Viv said. “YouTube little dog scares away big dog,” I said. “Doghub two poodles and one corgi,” Henrietta said. “Waxing my tail,” I said. “Is my tail a normal size,” Viv said.

Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie’s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close.

Additional flowers had been piled into a pair of massive baskets that were strapped across the back of Beatrix's mule, Hector. The little mule led the crowd at a dignified pace, while the women walking beside him reached into the baskets and tossed fresh handfuls of petals and blossoms to the ground. A straw hat festooned with flowers had been tied to Hector's head, his ears sticking out at crooked angles through the holes at the sides. "Good God, Albert," Christopher said ruefully to the dog beside him. "Between you and the mule, I think you got the best of the bargain." Albert had been freshly washed and trimmed, a collar of white roses fastened around his neck.

Albert?" The barking became more passionate, with cries and whimpers breaking in. Slowly Beatrix lowered to the ground and sat with her back against the shed. "Calm yourself, Albert," she said. "I'll let you out as soon as you're quiet." The terrier growled and pawed at the door. Having consulted several books on the subject of dogs, one on rough terriers in particular, Beatrix was fairly certain that training Albert with techniques involving dominance or punishment would not be at all effective. In fact, they would probably make his behavior worse. Terriers, the book had said, frequently tried to outsmart humans. The only method left was to reward his good behavior with praise and food and kindness. "Of course you're unhappy, poor boy. He's gone away, and your place is by his side. But I've come to collect you, and while he's gone, we'll work on your manners. Perhaps we can't turn you into a perfect lapdog... but I'll help you learn how to get on with others." She paused before adding with a reflective grin. "Of course, I can't manage to behave properly in polite society. I've always thought there's a fair amount of dishonesty involved in politeness. There, you're quiet now." She stood and pulled at the latch. "Here is your first rule, Albert: it's very rude to maul people." Albert burst out and jumped on her. Had she not been holding on to the support of the shed's frame, she would have been knocked over. Whining and wagging his tail, Albert stood on his hind legs and dove his face against her.

A CANINE EULOGY TO THE TITANIC: The ship’s log says that twelve dogs boarded The Titanic Airedales a King Charles Spaniel Fox Terrier Chow Chow a Poodle French Bulldog Great Dane a Newfoundland. Two Pomeranians and a Pekingese were smuggled off in lifeboats concealed in blankets a Scottish Deerhound de-boarded moments before leaving port the captain returning the dog to his young daughter. One woman lived the rest of her life haunted by the memory of her Poodle clinging to her pajamas as she left her cabin. The rip of fabric. The panicked cry. The scritch of nails on the wood of the cabin door. Another left a lifeboat after being told her Great Dane was too large to be permitted to join her. Their bodies were found, days later. The woman frozen, still clutching her dog. Who made the right choice?

Over the course of two years, from June 2004 to June 2006, two separate deaths did nothing to ease my overall anxiety. Steve’s beloved Staffordshire bull terrier Sui died of cancer in June 2004. He had set up his swag and slept beside her all night, talking to her, recalling old times in the bush catching crocodiles, and comforting her. Losing Sui brought up memories of losing Chilli a decade and a half earlier. “I am not getting another dog,” Steve said. “It is just too painful.” Wes, the most loyal friend anyone could have, was there for Steve while Sui passed from this life to the next. Wes shared in Steve’s grief. They had known Sui longer than Steve and I had been together. Two years after Sui’s death, in June 2006, we lost Harriet. At 175, Harriet was the oldest living creature on earth. She had met Charles Darwin and sailed on the Beagle. She was our link to the past at the zoo, and beyond that, our link to the great scientist himself. She was a living museum and an icon of our zoo. The kids and I were headed to Fraser Island, along the southern coast of Queensland, with Joy, Steve’s sister, and her husband, Frank, our zoo manager, when I heard the news. An ultrasound had confirmed that Harriet had suffered a massive heart attack. Steve called me. “I think you’d better come home.” “I should talk to the kids about this,” I said. Bindi was horrified. “How long is Harriet going to live?” she asked. “Maybe hours, maybe days, but not long.” “I don’t want to see Harriet die,” she said resolutely. She wanted to remember her as the healthy, happy tortoise with whom she’d grown up. From the time Bindi was a tiny baby, she would enter Harriet’s enclosure, put her arms around the tortoise’s massive shell, and rest her face against her carapace, which was always warm from the sun. Harriet’s favorite food was hibiscus flowers, and Bindi would collect them by the dozen to feed her dear friend. I was worried about Steve but told him that Bindi couldn’t bear to see Harriet dying. “It’s okay,” he said. “Wes is here with me.” Once again, it fell to Wes to share his best mate’s grief.

Christ. Study the roster. Study everybody’s photos,” she said. “Where’s the packing list for Earl?” Et cetera, et cetera . . . That spring, the gallery was putting up Ping Xi’s first solo show—“Bowwowwow”—and Natasha was up in arms about every little detail. She probably would have fired me sooner had she not been so busy. I tried to feign interest and mask my horror whenever Natasha talked about Ping Xi’s “dog pieces.” He had taxidermied a variety of pure breeds: a poodle, a Pomeranian, a Scottish terrier. Black Lab, Dachshund. Even a little Siberian husky pup. He’d been working on them for a long time. He and Natasha had grown close since his cum paintings had sold so well. During the installation, I overheard one of the interns whispering to the electrician. “There’s a rumor going around that the artist gets the dogs as puppies, raises them, then kills them when they’re the size he wants. He locks them in an industrial freezer because that’s the most humane way to euthanize them without compromising the look of the animal. When they thaw, he can get them into whatever position he wants.

Oh, it's you, sir," she exclaimed. She drew the door right back. A look of highly pleasurable excitement spread over her face. "Come in, sir, if you please, sir." We entered the hall. From beneath the door on the left, loud snuffling sounds proceeded, interspersed with growls. Bob was endeavoring to "place" us correctly. "You can let him out", I suggested. "I will, sir. He's quite all right, really, but he makes such a noise and rushes at people so it frightens them. He's a splendid watchdog though." She opened the morning room door, and Bob shot through like a suddenly projected cannonball. "Who is it? Where are they? Oh, there you are. Dear me, don't I seem to remember -" sniff- sniff- sniff- prolonged snort. "Of course! We have met!" "Hullo, old man," I said. "How goes it?" Bob wagged his tail perfunctorily. "Nicely, thank you. Let me just see -" he resumed his researches. "Been talking to a spaniel lately, I smell. Foolish dogs, I think. What's this? A cat? That is interesting. Wish we had her here. We'd have rare sport. H'm - not a bad bull terrier." Having correctly diagnosed a visit I had paid recently to some doggy friends, he transferred his attention to Poirot, inhaled a noseful of benzine and walked away reproachfully. "Bob", I called. He threw me a look over his shoulder. "It's all right. I know what I am doing. I'll be back in a jiffy.

Bob, he’s all action-packed-and-ready-to-go.

I don’t approve.’ A vet

Having consulted several books on the subject of dogs, one on rough terriers in particular, Beatrix was fairly certain that training Albert with techniques involving dominance or punishment would not be at all effective. In fact, they would probably make his behavior worse. Terriers, the book had said, frequently tried to outsmart humans. The only method left was to reward his good behavior with praise and food and kindness. "Of course you're unhappy, poor boy. He's gone away, and your place is by his side. But I've come to collect you, and while he's gone, we'll work on your manners. Perhaps we can't turn you into a perfect lapdog... but I'll help you learn how to get on with others." She paused before adding with a reflective grin. "Of course, I can't manage to behave properly in polite society. I've always thought there's a fair amount of dishonesty involved in politeness. There, you're quiet now." She stood and pulled at the latch. "Here is your first rule, Albert: it's very rude to maul people." Albert burst out and jumped on her. Had she not been holding on to the support of the shed's frame, she would have been knocked over. Whining and wagging his tail, Albert stood on his hind legs and dove his face against her.

There are many things I would like to believe in, because they would accord life coherence. One of them is God. Another is the notion that on the brink of death one’s life dances before one’s eyes in kaleidoscopic fragments: dramas, traumas, transcendent highs, troughs of gloom, or the crystallize moments that encapsulate a certain mood on a certain day, like - for me - the smell of forsythia blossom at nursery school, or a turn of phrase - “ca va tourner au vinaigre “ - used by my mother, bitterly, to someone on the phone, or the pop of the dog fleas Pierre and I picked from our terrier and flicked onto the barbecue, or the appalling intimacy of my first kiss, or the body blow of my mother’s death, or the chaos of Pierre’s wedding, or the aching realization that dawned when my father said “Mesopotamia” instead of “kitchen”, or the night I shouted at Alex and he swerved, or the morning the doctors gave me the final assessment of my paraplegia and, for want of anything better to do, I glanced at the clock and noted that it was 11:23.

Temperament: Brave, cheerful, loveable, enthusiastic, playful, affectionate, intelligent, dominant.

According to the American Treeing Feist Association, the treeing feist, or mountain feist, existed in the southern Appalachians long before rat terriers were brought to America. While terriers were bred to catch vermin, feists were bred to hunt. And while squirrels are their primary prey, the feist will gladly hunt raccoons, rabbits, or birds. With longer legs than terriers, feists are built for silent speed. They live to tree a squirrel until its owner comes to catch it. The feist has a storied history intertwined with the beginnings of the country. George Washington wrote about them in his diary, and Abraham Lincoln even referred to them in a poem.

The terrier mix is named Alabama. His tail thumps a beat on the side of the crate. “Alabama is a gobbler real bad,” Theresa says. In making their reports, the AFB techs must take into account the animals’ individual mealtime quirks. There are gulpers, circlers, tippers, snooters. If you weren’t acquainted with Alabama’s neighbor Elvis, for example, you’d think he was blasé about both foods just now set before him. Theresa gives a running commentary of Elvis’s behavior while a colleague jots notes. “Sniffing A. Sniffing B. Licking B, licking his paws. Going back to A. Looking at A. Sniffing B. Eating B.” Most dogs are more decisive. Like Porkchop. “You’ll see. He’ll sniff both, pick one, eat it. Ready?” She puts two bowls by Porkchop’s front paws. “Sniffing A, sniffing B, eating A. See? That’s what he does.

A small brownish-gray terrier had been sitting on the brick, but he hopped to his feet as soon as he saw Bridget and gave one sharp emphatic bark. "Now hush," she said to him- not that he seemed to care. She set the tin plate down and uncovered it, revealing the scraps that Mrs. Bram had saved for her. The terrier immediately began gobbling the food as if he was starving which, sadly, he might be. "You'll choke," Bridget said sternly. The terrier didn't listen. He never did, no matter how businesslike she made her voice. Grown men- footmen- might jump to obey her, but this scrawny waif defied her. Bridget bit her lip. If she was forced to leave Hermes House, who would feed the terrier? Mrs. Bram might- if she remembered to do so- but the cook was a busy woman with other matters on her mind. The dog finished his meal and licked the plate so enthusiastically that he overturned it with a clatter. Bridget tutted and bent to pick it up. The dog thrust his short snout under her hand as she did so and she found herself stroking his head. His fur was wiry rather than silky, almost greasy, but the dog had liquid brown eyes and seemed to smile as his mouth hung open, tongue lolling out. He was very, very sweet. She'd never been allowed a pet dog as a child. Her foster father was a shepherd and had considered dogs farm animals. A pet dog wasn't even to be thought of, especially for her, the cuckoo. Housekeepers, and indeed servants of any kind, weren't allowed pets. Sometimes a cat might be kept to catch mice in the kitchens, but it was a working animal. Dogs were dirty things and required food and space that, technically, she didn't own. Bridget stood and frowned down at the dog. "Shoo now." The dog sat and slowly wagged his tail, sweeping the bricks. One of his triangular ears stood up while the other lay down.

Consider your stock. Are your sheep or goats fast and nimble, flocking or nonflocking, spooky or accustomed to daily handling? Do you have dairy cattle or ranch cattle? Some herding breeds are suited to working cattle or hogs, while others can adapt to the variety of animals found on a small farm. Turkeys, geese, or ducks pose particular challenges.

you also expect me to wear this monstrosity? Ma’am, I am a cat, not some common, mouth-breathing dog.

Tufty, a recently arrived border terrier, jumped up on her lap, licking her face. Leeda pulled him close, suddenly, and held him, sinking her face into his ears, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, feeling guilty that he wasn't Barky but also feeling happy that he was there. She couldn't imagine holding another person that way. It was love at its simplest.

It’s always a shame when a good human falls to the dog side.

Wynne carried Smoky to the lawn outside, where he propped her into a GI helmet, to recreate the winning Yank Magazine image for the Red Cross photographer. But Smoky's tongue was hanging out exhaustedly, and it struck Wynne that she looked more like a dog-tired, war bitten soldier, than what she had been back then - namely, the gift that never stopped giving.

Anyone unaccustomed to the rather peculiar points of bull terrier beauty would have thought him a strange if not downright ugly dog, with the maked, down-faced arc of his profile, his deep-chested, stocky body and whip -tapered tail. But the true lover of an ancient and honorable breed would have recognized the blood and bone of this elderly and rather battered body; world have known that in his prime this had been a magnificent specimen of compact sinew and muscle, bred to fight and endure, and would have loved him for his curious mixture of waked, unyielding fighter yet devoted and docile family pet, and above all for the irrepressible air of sly merriment which gleamed in his little slant eyes.

Within a narrow limit, and concerning familiar things, the understanding of human speech by these intelligent little terriers is very truly remarkable. At mention of the wee lassie he looked behind for his rough old friend and unfailing refuge. Auld Jack’s absence discovered, Bobby promptly dropped from the seat of honour and from the cart tail, sniffed the smoke of Edinboro’s town, and faced right about. To the farmer’s peremptory call he returned the spicy repartee of a cheerful bark. It was as much as to say: ‘Dinna fash yersel’! I ken what I’m aboot.

Great Dane the size of a pony, and a girl with a rat terrier the size of the Great Dane’s head. Overall I preferred the rat terrier. Small dog, big personality. The little guy thought he was boss of the world.

Pete, the experts decided, was a full-blooded Airedale terrier of the “outside” type. By that I mean that he bored but slight resemblance to the small, nervous, inbred Airedales that figure at Madison Square Garden in February.

In the days when the fairies still populated Erin and the minstrels sang the ballads of Oisin, the kings of Ireland and their nobles bred the greatest of all dogs for the hunting of the gray wolf and the gigantic Irish elk—a sport for men of heart and brawn. Kin to the greyhound and as fleet, owning the blood of the wire-haired terrier of the north and as gamy as he, this dog was bred the largest and bravest of his kind—the sagh clium, or wolf-dog.

Tim, An Irish Terrier It's wonderful dogs they're breeding now: Small as a flea or large as a cow; But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet By any dog that he ever met, Come on 'says he'for I'm not kilt yet! No matter the size of the dog he'll meet, Tim trails his coat the length o'the street. D'ye mind his scar an'his ragged ear, The like of a Dublin Fusilier? He's a massacree dog that knows no fear. But he'd stick to me till his lastest breath; An'he'd go with me to the gates of death. He'd wait a thousand years,maybe, Scratching the door an'whining for me If myself were inside in Purgatory. So I laugh when I hear them make it plain That dogs and men never meet againj. For all their talk who'd listen to them With the soul in the shining eyes of him? Would God be wasting a dog like Tim? - Winifred M. Letts.

As for Judy, the terrier, the wet country had proved for her a great relief. Her ulcerated paws had been carefully covered with moccasins, and, from the beginning of the marshy country, daily improved, until she was able to accomplish the rare canine feat of over two thousand miles of steady travel. A day's pause was now to the tired creature a priceless boon, spent in a rest that was no less than intense. Selecting the quietest nook, she would coil herself with great deliberation, and for hour after hour not so much as move a muscle; immersed in a terrier's sleep, the tip of an eyelid never unlifted. I shall not soon forget her appearance in the Neches bottom. She was very averse-being anything but a water-dog-to enter at all; but seeing herself abandoned, as we waded away, jumped, with a yelp, into the water, and swam for the nearest stump; and so followed, alternately submerged in silence and mounted, with a series of dripping howls, upon these rotten pedestals.

While the rancher was talking, Ed’s eye fell on Derry, squatted alertly beside him, and vainly he tried to imagine the terrier slinking back to him as Neal’s had done. He felt sure his dog- untried on big game though he was- would never quit. For that very reason Derry must not be allowed to close with the big marauder. His very courage would betray him, for Derry, not knowing the meaning of surrender, would never cease battling until he had been killed – and a cougar that would not tree was a dangerous foe even for an experienced dog.

To put all his strength into the chase, to give battle, these were the only desires his madness left him. Caution, unknown to any of the great-hearted clan of terriers, could never stay him now. To live gloriously and go down bravely was the only creed he knew. And sending him n and on was that strange urge which was in the earth smells and the tang of the autumn air, the urge which had lured him back to the wilds from which he sprang.

To have in this high-spirited terrier a partner on those distant trails - not to make him into a docile slave- this was what he longed for. What if the Airedale did sometimes transgress in trifling matters? Wasn’t it better to keep his joyousness of spirit, his gay recklessness, then risk killing it only to gain a sullen, unloving obedience?

He spoke to Tommy in the way a dog does speak. He came up to him, shook himself, put a paw on Tommy's trouser leg and tried to pull him in the direction from which he had just come.

Cedric disconnected and reached down to scratch Tofu between the ears. The West Highland Terrier dropped to the floor and rolled over on his back, his short white legs shooting to the ceiling in an obvious effort to give Cedric more area to work on. Smart dog.

This is all common knowledge but, as I very much doubt, the public at large are aware of what is the real and proper function of the Terrier, I shall make an attempt to give a picture of it. From the earliest times the Terrier was used to bolt Foxes, work to Badger and Otter and to kill vermin generally, and it was not until the latter half of the last century that the Show Bench came into being and artificial interest in the dog.…” (emphasis added). Sparrow’s lament is as true today as it was over 100 years ago; many terrier owners have no idea why their terriers behave as they do or the amount of work it can take to live with the typical terrier. The average dog owner has lost touch with the fact that, regardless of the lifestyles we now provide for them, our dogs are still, first and foremost, dogs.

Oh, I knew very well,’ I said, thinking back to Flasher, my childhood terrier, and the large ginger cat which used to live in the kitchen and whose death had left our cook sobbing and shaking in her Windsor chair for two days while the family dined off ham sandwiches and apples. Flasher’s death had been the end of childhood for me and even that was as nothing compared with the loss of Bunty. For Bunty, quite simply, was the dog of my life.

The number of pit bulls who cause trouble is statistically irrelevant. Media will have you believe that pit bulls are running rampant and attacking people. More people die every year from coconuts falling onto their heads than from pit bull attacks! We need perspective. — Mary Harwelik, a professional dog trainer and director of The Real Pit Bull Foundation in Garwood, N.J.

12What is considered aggressive is culturally and generationally relative. German shepherds were on the top of the list after World War II; in the 1990s Rottweilers and Dobermans were scorned; the American Staffordshire terrier (also known as the pit bull) is the current bête noire. Their classification has more to do with recent events and public perception than with their intrinsic nature. Recent research found that of all breeds, dachshunds were the most aggressive to both their own owners and to strangers. Perhaps this is underreported because a snarling dachshund can be picked up and stashed away in a tote bag. 13

A ‘journal’ is ‘any paper published daily’, despite his own experience of journals that weren’t daily. Occasionally he insists on a meaning that barely exists simply so as to enforce a strict sense of etymological correctness. For example, a ‘terrier’ is ‘a dog that follows his game under ground’, because it comes from the Latin word for ‘ground’, terra. The first sense of ‘candid’ is ‘white’, because this accords with its Latin root candidus, even though, as Johnson admits, ‘This sense is very rare.’ For the same reason an ‘insult’ is ‘the act of jumping upon any thing’ before it is an ‘act or speech of insolence or contempt’: insultare is the Latin for ‘to leap on’ or ‘to trample’. As if to license these fussy spurts of Latinism, the Dictionary frequently reminds its readers that etymology is no easy business.

Dear Prudence, I’m sitting in this dusty tent, trying to think of something eloquent to write. I’m at wit’s end. You deserve beautiful words, but all I have left are these: I think of you constantly. I think of this letter in your hand and the scent of perfume on your wrist. I want silence and clear air, and a bed with a soft white pillow… Beatrix felt her eyebrows lifting, and a quick rise of heat beneath the high collar of her dress. She paused and glanced at Prudence. “You find this boring?” she asked mildly, while her blush spread like spilled wine on linen. “The beginning is the only good part,” Prudence said. “Go on.” …Two days ago in our march down the coast to Sebastopol, we fought the Russians at the Alma River. I’m told it was a victory for our side. It doesn’t feel like one. We’ve lost at least two thirds of our regiment’s officers, and a quarter of the noncommissioned men. Yesterday we dug graves. They call the final tally of dead and wounded the “butcher’s bill.” Three hundred and sixty British dead so far, and more as soldiers succumb to their wounds. One of the fallen, Captain Brighton, brought a rough terrier named Albert, who is undoubtedly the most badly behaved canine in existence. After Brighton was lowered into the ground, the dog sat by his grave and whined for hours, and tried to bite anyone who came near. I made the mistake of offering him a portion of a biscuit, and now the benighted creature follows me everywhere. At this moment he is sitting in my tent, staring at me with half-crazed eyes. The whining rarely stops. Whenever I get near, he tries to sink his teeth into my arm. I want to shoot him, but I’m too tired of killing. Families are grieving for the lives I’ve taken. Sons, brothers, fathers. I’ve earned a place in hell for the things I’ve done, and the war’s barely started. I’m changing, and not for the better. The man you knew is gone for good, and I fear you may not like his replacement nearly so well. The smell of death, Pru…it’s everywhere. The battlefield is strewn with pieces of bodies, clothes, soles of boots. Imagine an explosion that could tear the soles from your shoes. They say that after a battle, wildflowers are more abundant the next season--the ground is so churned and torn, it gives the new seeds room to take root. I want to grieve, but there is no place for it. No time. I have to put the feelings away somewhere. Is there still some peaceful place in the world? Please write to me. Tell me about some bit of needlework you’re working on, or your favorite song. Is it raining in Stony Cross? Have the leaves begun to change color? Yours, Christopher Phelan

She’d started out a snarling pit bull and was still no lap dog, but I’d place her in the terrier family: friendly when it suited her, self-protective when she needed to be.

It was also important that she think he liked her dog. It was not nearly so important that he actually did. Which was fortunate, really. Yorkshire Terriers were just so … sickeningly cute.

The night my girlfriend discovered she wouldn’t be my only bedfellow, she was baffled. “Where I come from, you only sleep with a dog in your bed if you’re single, or your central heating is broken,” she said upon finding Whisky, my 15-pound terrier-spaniel mix, settled in comfortably for the night, her head resting daintily on my pillow.

Pit Bull bans are enormously expensive and ineffective. And if breed discriminatory ordinances are passed, people who love their pets will fight the arbitrary identification of their dog, making them more difficult to enforce. If you take someone's property away, the burden of proof is on the government to prove the pet is subject to the law, which means you must prove it is a pit bull. That becomes an extensive, costly battle that could require DNA testing to see if the dog actually is subject to a ban.

Foxes are considered vermin by landowners, have a population inflated by modern farming techniques, and may be shot or snared by anyone—which is not clearly less cruel than hunting them with dogs. Nor was the ban a blow for class warfare, contrary to the belief of many Labour antis, who considered the “so-called sport” an exclusive preserve of cruel toffs. It never was. And by then fox-hunting, with village cricket and the Sunday service, was a fading vestige of the class-based, yet not wholly class-bound way of much of British rural society for centuries. “If the French nobility had been capable of playing cricket with their peasants, their chateaux would never have been burnt,” the historian G.M. Trevelyan wrote. Had they ridden to hounds with their tenants, as 19th-century English gentlemen huntsmen did, then cheered them as they sent in the terriers,

Despite Grumblethorpe's noises of disapproval, Esme knew she liked the family pets.She just did't approve of having so many of them in her mistress's bedroom at once. Still, it was an old battle and one the lady's maid had given up waging long ago. Good thing too, since four of Esme's six cats- who had all started life in either Braebourne stables or as strays she'd rescued- were snoozing in various locations around her room. They included a big orange male, Tobias, who was curled up in a cozy spot in the middle of her bed; Queen Elizabeth- a sweet-natured tabby, who was lounging in her usual window seat; Mozart- a luxuriously coated white longhair who luckily loved being brushed; and Naiad, a one-eyed black female, whom Esme had rescued from drowning as a kitten. Her other two cats, Persephone and Ruff, were out and about, seeing to their own cat business. As for the dogs, Burr lay stretched out on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace. He snored gently, clearly tired after their recent adventures. And joining him in the land of dreams was dear old Henry, a brindle spaniel who was curled up inside a nearby dog bed lined with plush pillows that helped cushion his aging joints. Handel and Haydn, a pair of impish Scottish terriers, were absent. She suspected they were on the third floor playing with her increasingly large brood of nieces and nephews. The dogs loved the children.

THERE WERE THREE DOGS on the island, too—a maniacal little terrier called Fitzy that single-handedly kept the island nearly free of rats; a gigantic, imperturbable brindled mastiff named Grizzly, who had the habits of fetching the island children from the water whether they liked it or not and sometimes gently sitting on them when he thought they were being naughty or too mean toward one another; and a friendly but emotionally fragile mutt with brown body, black mask, and white socks, called Sulky, that if spoken to sharply went off in a huff and found a corner and stared at it for an hour.

His tail arched gaily over his back and waved like a beautiful plume. Long golden hair fell like a curtain over his face, hiding his eyes until they flashed out merrily when he tossed his head. He was, Momo knew, the most beautiful dog in the world, and as her father had said of the head lama’s terrier, like a prince among men. He was as gentle as he was strong, and had fine manners. Before entering the house in winter he always stopped to shake the snow from his long, thick hair. He sat up and begged for his tsampa, and said thank you with a bark and a wave of his paw. He could stand on his hind legs and dance to the music of Nema’s fiddle. Day and night he was at Momo’s side, in the house or on the hills, and always lovingly obedient to her least command, a merry and adoring companion. He understood, naturally, all her words and even her thoughts, and Momo returned his love in full measure.

Remarkable breed, terriers,” the officer explained to his orderly. “Boss ‘em around and they pay no attention to you. Make them understand there’s a good reason for doing something, and they are almost human.

A shell splinter cut Rags’s left forepaw. Another caromed off his gas mask, mangling his right ear. A needle-like sliver was imbedded under his right eye. The terrier was dazed for a minute, Then he struggled to his feet. Donovan lay where he had fallen. His gas mask had been shot away; arms and legs were cat by shrapnel. Blood from a gash in his forehead was blinding him. Over all hung the burning tang of gas—thinned somewhat by a northwest breeze, but still strong enough to sear the throats of sergeant and terrier. Between wheezes and coughs Rags pawed the now useless mask from his head. He licked first the sergeant’s outflung hand, then his face. Donovan roused himself. He lengthened the wire that tied the message to the dog’s collar, so Rags could carry the paper in his mouth. It would be lost if the little terrier succumbed before delivering it. The Sergeant started the dog toward the guns. As near-by bursts intensified the gas, Donovan staggered to his feet and urged the dog to a run. The terrier, favoring his wounded paw as much as he could, moved at a limping trot. Donovan, stumbling along behind, saw the concussion of a nearby shell-blast turn the little terrier on his back.

Possibly she insists upon being called a Scottish terrier because, at the moment, Scottish terriers are high in fashion — it is queer, isn’t it that there should be fashions in dogs? Scotties are a sane style; they are, so to say, serviceable and they give good wear. They have all the compactness of a small dog and all the valor of a big one. And they are so exceedingly sturdy that it is proverbial that the only thing fatal to them is being run over by an automobile — in which case the car itself knows that it has been in a fight.

Bull terriers are odd dogs. With their egg-shaped heads, slitty eyes, and pointy ears, they’re funny looking. Think Spuds MacKenzie or the Target dog. BTs are opinionated, exuberant, stubborn, extremely silly, and loving, but at times too smart for their own good. What does that say about bull terrier owners?

She haunted many a low resort, Round the grimy road of Tottenham Court. She flitted around the no man’s land From The Rising Sun to The Friend At Hand And the postman sighed as he scratched his head You really would have thought she ought to be dead And who would ever suppose that that Was Grizabella The Glamour Cat. And that was not all. There was a letter from Tom Eliot to his publisher Geoffrey Faber about an event which brought all the Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats together who then ascended to the “Heaviside Layer” in a great big air balloon. There was even a couplet to go with it: “Up, up, up, past the Russell Hotel, / Up, up, up, to the Heaviside Layer.” So Eliot himself had an idea for a bigger structure for these poems, very vague, but it was there. I knew then that I had the bare bones of a stage musical. Most importantly Grizabella the Glamour Cat gave me a tragic character, a character who you would really care about. I asked Cameron and Gillie to join Valerie and Matthew, and the excitement was tangible. There were other poems too, the story of a parrot called Billy McCaw, who lived on the bar of an East End pub. There was the saga of a Yorkshire terrier called Little Tom Pollicle which was apparently Eliot’s nickname, and a long poem about a man in white spats who meets a casual diner in a pub called the Princess Louise and starts talking about “this’s and thats and Pollicle Dogs and Jellicle Cats.” I asked Valerie what the words “Pollicle” and “Jellicle” meant. She explained it was Eliot’s private joke about how the British upper class slurred the words “poor little dogs” and “dear little cats.” She also revealed that Eliot intended the “Princess Louise” poem, as we came to call it, to be the preface of a book about dogs and cats, but in the end cats prevailed. “The Awefull Battle of the