Yorkie Quotes

You are ours and he should have known not to touch you." "I'm yours? I thought you hated me." Kit stepped out of the bathroom. "We don't hate you. You're our pet." "Kit!" Rusty shook her head. "Don't say that. You'll offend her." Kit shrugged "She is. She's so little and cute. She yaps around trying to please like... What are they called? A Yorkie?" Rusty sighed. "We decided she's more similar to a cute little poodle with her long blonde hair." She flashed a smile at Ellie. "Don't take it offensively please. We enjoy having you around and you amuse us to no end.

Ha tizenkettőből kilenc kérdésben egyetért velem, szavazzon rám! Ha tizenkettőből mind a tizenkét kérdésben egyetért velem, forduljon pszichiáterhez! (Edward I. Koch a New York-i polgármesteri választásokon, 1989-ben)

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

I’m twenty-four, a first grade teacher, have a Yorkie named Pedro, a goldfish named Fish, have never had sex, or a serious boyfriend, and I’m the town lesbian who pukes when she sees a pussy. Nothing really to be jealous of at all.

The mother is a Chihuahua. The father, we’re thinking Yorkie.” “Max, you’re a Chorkie!” CJ smiled down at me.

I want to increase my barbell lifts by another thirty pounds before spring. And I want to get a dog, an adorable Yorkie.

Every so often in New York I was mistaken for Puerto Rican, Cuban, Greek, or Arab. In San Diego, where I lived for four years before moving to Michigan, I was almost always seen as Mexican.

Now," Tick-Tock said, returning his gaze to Jake, "you say the American city you came form--this New York--is much like Lud." "Well...not exactly..." "But you do recognize some of the machinery," Tick-Tock pressed. "Valves and pumps and such. Not to mention the firedim tubes." "Yes. We call it neon, but it's the same." Tick-Tock reached out toward him. Jake cringed, but Tick-Tock only patted him on the shoulder. "Yes, yes; close enough." His eyes gleamed. "And you've heard of computers?

Do you have any ritual things you do before a race?” My dad did. He always had to wear black boxer shorts and socks. Before every race, he would also have a plain egg omelet for breakfast. I never did learn why. “Yep.” I wait, but he doesn’t expand. “Well…are you gonna tell me what it is?” Arms on the table, he leans forward. “Okay.” He lets out a breath. “I have to eat a bar of Galaxy chocolate before each race.” “Really?” I smile. “Why?” Eyes on me, he rests back in his seat, keeping his hands on the table. “After we first moved to England, I don’t know if it was the pressure or being in a different country or what, but I wasn’t winning races. I was coming in fourth at best. I was panicking because Dad had given up so much by moving us to England, and I was getting frustrated because I knew I was capable of more. “Anyway, on this particular day, I was hungry because I’d forgotten to eat, and my dad was all, ‘You will lose this race on an empty stomach.’ So, he went off to get me something to eat. Anyway, he came back, telling me there was only this shitty vending machine. Then, he held out a bar of Galaxy chocolate, and I was like, ‘What the hell is that? I’m not eating that. It’s women’s chocolate. Men don’t eat Galaxy. They eat Yorkie.’ You remember the adverts?” “I do.” I laugh, loving the way he’s telling the story. He’s so animated with his eyes all lit up. “So, my dad got pissed off and said, ‘Well, they haven’t got any men’s chocolate, so eat the bloody women’s chocolate, and shut the hell up!’” I snort out a laugh. “So, what did you do?” “Sulked for about a minute, and then I ate the fucking bar of Galaxy, and it was the best chocolate I’d ever tasted—not that I admitted that to my dad at the time. Then, I got in my kart and won my first ever race in England.” He smiles fondly, and I can see the memory in his eyes. “And since then, before every race, my dad buys me a bar of Galaxy from a vending machine, and I eat it. It’s my one weird thing.” “But what if there isn’t any Galaxy chocolate in a vending machine? Or worse, there isn’t a vending machine?” He leans forward, a sexy-arse smile on his face. “There’s always a vending machine, Andressa, and there’s always a bar of Galaxy in it.” “Ah.” The power of being Carrick Ryan.

Sadie hopped in the car, twisting the key in the ignition and checking her makeup in the visor's mirror at the same time. Not enough eye shadow, she mused. Or maybe just a brighter shade... She'd pick up a festive color when she had a chance. “What do you think, Coco?” Sadie reached into the tote bag and pulled out the squirming ball of fluff, holding Coco up against her face so they could look in the mirror together. “C’mon, now, one yip for an exotic color around the eyes, two yips for brighter lipstick.” Instead of yipping an answer, the Yorkie gave Sadie’s cheek a canine kiss. Sadie reciprocated with a pat on the head. “I know, Coco, you love me just as I am. I feel the same way. Besides, I don’t think you’d care for lipstick unless it tasted like peanut butter.” Sadie adjusted the velvet pillow in the tote bag, placed the dog back inside and adjusted the seatbelt harness that held the bag in place. “Let’s go check out this inn of Tina’s. What do you say to that?” She smiled at the immediate yip of approval. It was rare she didn’t gain Coco’s enthusiasm when the word “go” turned up anywhere in a sentence.

In the spring of 2021, Friedenbach published an op-ed opposing a proposal considered by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors to create, within eighteen months, sufficient homeless shelters and outdoor “Safe Sleeping Sites” for all of the city’s unsheltered homeless. “One can simply take a look to New York City,” she wrote. “Their department spends about $1.3 billion dollars of its budget on providing shelter for their unhoused population while thousands remain on the street. . . . As a result, New York has a higher rate of homelessness than San Francisco.”4 Housing First advocate Margot Kushel of the University of California, San Francisco agreed. “The problem with New York—and I spend a lot of time with people working in the system in New York—is that they spend an estimated $30,000 for each person per year to keep them in shelter. That’s not what we want to do. Because if you create the shelter and you don’t create the housing, then people are just in shelter forever.

pound mutt that doesn’t belong in a hospital.” “Oh.” Mrs. Riley’s eyes filled with tears. “We had a dog. A small Yorkie. She died a few months ago. I know Kalinda misses her terribly. I remember reading something about hospitals using therapy dogs. Do you think that would help?” She was a mother who loved her

Back in 2016, when the Brooklyn incident occurred, AMB-FUBINACA was not yet banned. For this reason, sellers probably included it in their products as a replacement for a recently banned synthetic cannabinoid. The problem is that AMB-FUBINACA is considerably more potent than THC—and even more potent than JWH-018—meaning that far less of this substance is needed to produce effects, including unfavorable ones. Now that it’s banned, less well-known and likely more potent replacements will fill the void. That’s why the government’s knee-jerk response to ban any new psychoactive substance invariably leads to more unknown substances in the illicit market. This pattern has been repeatedly shown to jeopardize the health of people simply seeking to alter their consciousness. Note also that most users of synthetic cannabinoids consume these substances seeking a marijuana-like high and that serious adverse effects are rarely associated with adult marijuana use. Furthermore, an outbreak of negative health reactions to synthetic cannabinoids—like that which has been reported in several states, including Connecticut, Illinois, Maryland, and New York—is virtually unheard of in states where marijuana is legal. If you were serious about reducing problems associated with illicit synthetic cannabinoids, you would push for the expansion of legalized recreational marijuana. It’s utterly disheartening to know that regular, decent people’s health is unnecessarily placed at risk because of dishonest, callous leaders.

I sat in one of the six brown leather recliners parked in front of the TV. My Yorkie, Stuntman Mike, stood in my lap, growling.

Faith!" Tracy called. "Your dog's got serious identity issues."... "Hey!" she said, picking Humperdinck up in her arms. "How'd you do at Tracy's" "He mounted the damn cat." Tracy set the travel kennel beside the couch. "You're going to have Siamese Yorkies if you don't do something about him.

Rachel Renée Russell is an attorney who prefers writing tween books to legal briefs. (Mainly because books are a lot more fun and pajamas and bunny slippers aren’t allowed in court.) She has raised two daughters and lived to tell about it. Her hobbies include growing purple flowers and doing totally useless crafts (like, for example, making a microwave oven out of Popsicle sticks, glue, and glitter). Rachel lives in northern Virginia with a spoiled pet Yorkie who terrorizes her daily by climbing on top of a computer cabinet and pelting her with stuffed animals while she writes. And, yes, Rachel considers herself a total Dork. Visit

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.

motioned to the owner. “What do you call this dog?” she asked. “She’s a Yorkie Poo. Six weeks. She just came in yesterday, and she’ll be gone in a few days. She’ll make a wonderful pet. I always recommend female dogs for women. You probably won’t believe this, but Yorkies are great little watchdogs.” Casey nodded. The moment the dog was placed in her hands, she knew she had a friend. She was so tiny she could fit in Casey’s raincoat pocket. She cradled the dog to her cheek. She felt so warm and so alive. Holding the puppy against her cheek, she meandered down the kitten aisle until she came to the last cage, where four kittens romped with a ball of string. “That one,” she said, pointing to a yellow tiger cat. “Good choice.” The owner beamed. The Yorkie licked at the kitten, who playfully swiped at her with one tiny paw. “They’ll get along, contrary to what you may have heard about dogs and cats. The kitten is just five weeks old, so the Yorkie will be boss, you’ll see. What else will you need?” Casey shrugged helplessly. “I never had an animal before. You tell me.” “Two kennels, two beds, leashes, food, a few toys, their own blankets, litter box and litter. It’s almost like outfitting a room for a new baby,” the owner said happily. “Can you deliver?” Casey asked anxiously. “Of course. If you like, I can drive you home with the animals. I’ll close the store for a little while. Do you live close by?” “Seventy-ninth, around the corner really. I appreciate it.

I Once Was A Bee by Stewart Stafford I once was a bee, All striped and dorky, I got crushed underfoot, By Amber Heard's Yorkie. It mashed my wings, I never sought money, Even when it made me, Poop out some honey. As I flew to Bee Heaven, In a mystical fog, She made such a fuss, Of that murdering dog. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

we found ourselves a spot across from a yippy Yorkie and a baleful basset.

Yorkie)!

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start here: being an artist is very lonely business. No one talks about that. All those years—my teenage years, my time as a young woman, the earliest days in New York—I was plagued by a sense of isolation.

She’d pulled the very top part of her long strawberry blond hair into a tiny ponytail, making her look like a Yorky.

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Rachel Renée Russell is an attorney who prefers writing tween books to legal briefs. (Mainly because books are a lot more fun and pajamas and bunny slippers aren’t allowed in court.) She has raised two daughters and lived to tell about it. Her hobbies include growing purple flowers and doing totally useless crafts (like, for example, making a microwave oven out of lolly sticks, glue and glitter). Rachel lives in northern Virginia with a spoiled pet Yorkie who terrorizes her daily by climbing on top of a computer cabinet and pelting her with stuffed animals while she writes. And, yes, Rachel considers herself a total Dork.

Christ, I’m afraid of dogs. And I’m talking about all dogs, including Yorkies. You’ll hate me, but I don’t like pets. Naturally, I don’t like being bitten and I hate being shed on, licked, or barked at. On the evolutionary scale, I always regarded all animals as failed humans. I also don’t like being sung to by a canary or when fish in a tank look back at me.

Ugyanabban a hónapban, amikor Parker „Rezümé”-jét olvasom – „A penge fáj / A folyó nyirkos / A sav csúfít / Méreg görcsöt okoz / A gáz szagos / Akár élhetnék is” –, elkezdek Sylvia Platht olvasni, aki, és ebben mindenki egyetért, azon kevés nők egyike, aki ugyanolyan jól ír, mint egy férfi, de aki szintén egyfolytában öngyilkossággal próbálkozik: újra meg újra összetöri a kocsiját, vagy túladagolja magát. Ez pedig aggasztó. Belezúgok Bessie Smithbe is, akinek a heroin szövi át az életét. Bálványozom Janis Joplint, aki a hatvanas évekbe hal bele. Az emberek pedig egyre szörnyűbbek a yorki hercegnővel, csak mert vörös. Muszáj észrevennem, hogy azok a nők, akik egyenrangúak a férfiakkal, mintha mind boldogtalanok lennének, és hajlamosak fiatalon meghalni. A lusta közvélemény úgy tartja, hogy ez azért van így, mert a nők természetüktől fogva alkalmatlanok rá, hogy kiálljanak magukért, és egyenlő feltételekkel vegyék fel a versenyt a férfiakkal. Egyszerűen nem tudnak mit kezdeni a nagyfiús dolgokkal. Ezért abba is kéne hagyniuk a próbálkozást. De ahogy közelebbről nézem a vesztüket – kilátástalanság, önutálat, csekély önbecsülés, kimerültség, frusztráció a lehetőségek, a tér, a megértés, a támogatás vagy a kontextus állandó hiánya miatt –, nekem úgy tűnik, mintha mind ugyanazon ok miatt pusztulnának: rossz évszázadban ragadtak. Kezdem úgy gondolni, hogy minden korábbi korszak mérgező volt a nők számára. Előtte is tudtam már – de csak mint a háttérben meghúzódó, elfogadott tényt. Most újra tudom – de ezúttal hangos, felháborító tényként. Férfiak veszik körül őket, nincs egy csapat vagy anyafigura, aki lelket öntsön beléjük. Csak a magányos tűsarok, amely csupa bakancs között kopog át a termen. Belefásultak újdonság mivoltukba. Feldühíti és kimeríti őket, hogy el kell magyarázniuk mindazt a férfiaknak, amit a nők mindig is tudtak. Űrhajósok ők a Mir űrállomáson, vagy a legkorábbi transzplantáltakba beültetett szívek. Igen, lehetnek úttörők, de nem működőképesek. Végül kilöki őket a test. Túl ritka a levegő. Nem megy.

Sam Anderson. “The Greatest Novel.” New York Magazine (outline). Jan. 9, 2011. New York is, famously, the everything bagel of megalopolises—one of the world’s most diverse cities, defined by its churning mix of religions, ethnicities, social classes, attitudes, lifestyles, etc., ad infinitum. This makes it a perfect match for the novel, a genre that tends to share the same insatiable urge. In choosing the best New York novel, then, my first instinct was to pick something from the city’s proud tradition of megabooks—one of those encyclopedic ambition bombs that attempt to capture, New Yorkily, the full New Yorkiness of New York. Something like, to name just a quick armful or two, Manhattan Transfer, The Bonfire of the Vanities, Underworld, Invisible Man, Winter’s Tale, or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay—or possibly even one of the tradition’s more modest recent offspring, like Lush Life and Let the Great World Spin. In the end, however, I decided that the single greatest New York novel is the exact opposite of all of those: a relatively small book containing absolutely zero diversity. There are no black or Hispanic or Asian characters, no poor people, no rabble-rousers, no noodle throwers or lapsed Baha’i priests or transgender dominatrixes walking hobos on leashes through flocks of unfazed schoolchildren. Instead there are proper ladies behaving properly at the opera, and more proper ladies behaving properly at private balls, and a phlegmatic old Dutch patriarch dismayed by the decline of capital-S Society. The book’s plot hinges on a subtly tragic love triangle among effortlessly affluent lovers. It is 100 percent devoted to the narrow world of white upper-class Protestant heterosexuals. So how can Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence possibly be the greatest New York novel of all time?