dogs - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
That damn dog never knew when to quit. He never knew when to quit his barking, his slobbering or panting his rancid breath in my face when he wanted his breakfast. I lost count of the number of times I dreamed of rehoming him or not looking for him after he ran away. The day the black bear came for Gracie in the street he didn't know when to quit either. I had popped in to get an ice-cream and when I returned the bear was just feet away from her. For a moment I stood frozen, unable to decide whether to run for her, double back for a kitchen knife or just scream. In that moment Buddy ran between my legs and tore after that bear, barking, teeth bared. The bear was taken aback and retreated a few steps before turning to lunge and swipe. Like I said, that damn dog never knew when to quit. Never when to quit wagging her tail, or giving us loving doggy eyes, or behaving like a puppy when the leash got jangled. And never when to quit fighting for her Gracie
As the sun sank lower toward the greying silhouettes of the woodland trees, the dogs moved wolfishly in a pack. Their brindled coats merged with the fading dappled shadows and they hunkered low to the ground. It had been three generations since they had become feral. The poodles and other long haired breeds just hadn't been able to survive without their regular visits to the groomers. The small dogs hadn't made it either, most likely they were picked off by the coyotes. Many starved or were rounded up by the city pound and shot. They had been turned out when a wild rumour circled the internet about canine flu, but the only thing viral was the propaganda. People had panicked and turned them out to fend for themselves. The canine flu turned out to be the most successful hoax of recent times, but the collective guilt of what we did to our "best friends" stops people believing it. Anyone who mentions its falseness is shunned and those who clamour for their extermination are embraced.
Despite the trouble of feeding them the dogs were worth their weight in produce. At night if any stray person or bear approached the enclave they would kick up such an unholy stink that the entire community was awake and reaching for whatever arms they possessed. The children were dispersed to separate underground hide-outs in pairs and knew to keep quiet. We used to corral them in the middle and surround them like animals often to to protect their young. But one day an Outsider broke through and almost killed three of them before he was jumped on by half a dozen of the teenagers. So these dogs with their fleas, their drool and appetites are rewarded like family. Because to us they are loved ones. Brave. Loyal. Cherished.
Anyone who knows canine nature need hardly, be told that, by this time, all the other dogs in the place were fighting as if their hearths and homes depended on the fray. The big dogs fought each other indiscriminately; and the little dogs fought among themselves, and filled up their spare time by biting the legs of the big dogs.
I remember being in the lobby of the Haymarket Stores one day, and all round about me were dogs, waiting for the return of their owners, who were shopping inside. There were a mastiff, and one or two collies, and a St. Bernard, a few retrievers and Newfoundlands, a boar-hound, a French
poodle, with plenty of hair round its head, but mangy about the middle; a bull-dog, a few Lowther Arcade sort of animals, about the size of rats,and a couple of Yorkshire tykes.
There they sat, patient, good, and thoughtful. A solemn peacefulness seemed to reign in that lobby. An air of calmness and resignation—of gentle sadness pervaded the room.
I do not blame the dog (contenting myself, as a rule, with merely clouting his head or throwing stones at him), because I take it that it is his nature. 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.
The dog was large with a brindled coat and an extravagant ruff of fur around it's neck and a long tail that curved like the hook of a coat hanger.
Harris and I followed his gaze, and saw, coming down towards us on the sluggish current, a dog. It was one of the quietest and peacefullest dogs I have ever seen. I never met a dog who seemed more contented—more easy in its mind. It was floating dreamily on its back, with its four legs stuck up straight into the air. It was what I should call a full-bodied dog, with a well-developed chest. On he came, serene, dignified, and calm, until he was abreast of our boat, and there, among the rushes, he eased up, and settled down cosily for the evening.
Stray, abandoned, nondescript mongrel, underweight, underfed, tethered, hit, kicked, scolded, tail and ears drooping, sad, melancholy eyes, vulnerable, shattered spirit, never petted, ignored.
Companion, friend, loyal, guard dogs, guide dogs, search and rescue, affectionate, loving, enthusiastic, groomed, fed, chewing bones, wagging tail, lick hand, wet nose, jumping up, cuddling, resting head on lap, sleeping at the food of the bed.
Nibbles my sleeve and jeans, drinks from the toilet, follows me around the house, barks at anything and anyone outside, adores cheese, lies under the table at dinner time, gets on the couch when I go out, put's his paw on my lap when he wants to go out into the yard, pulls on the leash every single walk, desperate to chase squirrels, is not afraid of bears, gallops around the forest, jumps in ice cold streams, refuses to swim in the lake, will bark at you to make you throw a stick.