Why does my dog lick the floor - Floor plans for bungalows.

Why Does My Dog Lick The Floor

why does my dog lick the floor
  • The lower surface of a room, on which one may walk
  • shock: surprise greatly; knock someone's socks off; "I was floored when I heard that I was promoted"
  • a structure consisting of a room or set of rooms at a single position along a vertical scale; "what level is the office on?"
  • A level area or space used or designed for a particular activity
  • the inside lower horizontal surface (as of a room, hallway, tent, or other structure); "they needed rugs to cover the bare floors"; "we spread our sleeping bags on the dry floor of the tent"
  • All the rooms or areas on the same level of a building; a story
  • cream: beat thoroughly and conclusively in a competition or fight; "We licked the other team on Sunday!"
  • An act of licking something with the tongue
  • A small amount or quick application of something, esp. paint
  • A movement of flame, water, etc., resembling this
  • salt lick: a salt deposit that animals regularly lick
  • pass the tongue over; "the dog licked her hand"
  • A domesticated carnivorous mammal that typically has a long snout, an acute sense of smell, and a barking, howling, or whining voice. It is widely kept as a pet or for work or field sports
  • a member of the genus Canis (probably descended from the common wolf) that has been domesticated by man since prehistoric times; occurs in many breeds; "the dog barked all night"
  • chase: go after with the intent to catch; "The policeman chased the mugger down the alley"; "the dog chased the rabbit"
  • A wild animal of the dog family
  • The male of an animal of the dog family, or of some other mammals such as the otter
  • frump: a dull unattractive unpleasant girl or woman; "she got a reputation as a frump"; "she's a real dog"

Short Story about Kate 1970
Short Story about Kate 1970
[The picture of Kate posted here is from the early 1980s.] What follows is a short story I wrote in 1970 while I was a junior at Davidson College. I based it on one of two visits I'd made that winter to see my old girlfriend Kate at Hollins College (now Hollins University), where she was a freshman. We'd stopped dating a few months before we met up . Her new boyfriend's nickname was "Jimmer". I liked the name and adopted it for my lead character. Kate became "Sarah", which was her name until she was three years old, when her father, who didn't like the name, had it changed to Katharine. I looked a wreck that day - my hair was really long, and I had this thick scruffy beard. Kate didn't recognize me at first. All in all it was an extremely painful day for me. It killed me to see her, but I wasn't going to let her know it. This story won first prize in the Queens College short story contest in 1971 for which I received ten bucks. It was published later in their literary magazine. It pains me that I named it: UNTITLED Jimmer realized as soon as he entered the lobby that the girl at the switchboard was too busy to get Sarah on the intercom, so he decided to make himself comfortable while he waited. He sat down in a chair near the front door, kicked off his tennis shoes, and removed his glasses from his jacket pocket and balanced them neatly on the end of his nose. From another pocket he withdrew a small notebook and a ballpoint pen and began writing at the top of the first blank page: “Your honor,” continued King with ironic deference to the white man who looked down on him from behind the bench like a bored nun, “this courtroom – and I’d like the record to reflect that I am referring to the people within this courtroom, since the courtroom itself is merely a room with a lot of chairs, a few tables, a couple of pitchers of water, and some air, and should therefore in no way be considered to be the addressee of my remarks per se – this courtroom has not once – as I have noted elsewhere – but on several occasions been the unconscious victim of a brutal miscarriage!” King stepped back from the bench and turned swiftly to face the courtroom spectators who now sat upright, attentive as school children, all of them silent as death, with the exception of one slightly-built longhaired youth who fidgeted in his seat throughout the entire proceedings, eating fishsticks and silently quoting Latin declensions. At a given “Excuse me, can I get someone for you?” Momentarily startled, Jimmer looked up into the fat red face of the desk girl. “What – no, that’s ok, I was – I mean, yes! Sarah Butler, on the, uh, second floor. No, third floor.” “Second floor,” she said, turning to the intercom and flicking a switch. Ok, then, dammit, the second goddamn floor. He looked away from her and read over what he’d written so far and decided it wasn’t much good. But it could have been great, he thought, if that bitch hadn’t – well, have to start on something else, I suppose. Something good and lurid for a change: The savage desk girl flung her incredible body upon him like a thrill-crazed animal, nostrils flared, lips quivering with desire, her eyes crying HURT ME! as she tore the flimsy Villager blouse from her breast and hurled it across the room. In an instant she was naked, save for the crotchless Weejuns which clung tightly to her feet in just the right “Are you Jimmer?” interrupted the desk girl. He sighed without looking at her and put his notebook away. “I think so. Is she in?” “Her roommate says she’s on her way down. I hate to do this, but would you mind putting on your shoes? It’s a rule, not me, they just – “ “Look, I’m real sorry but I drove all afternoon to get here and I’m tired, ok?” “I’m sorry, but it’s a rule,” she said stubbornly. “The student handbook says -” “Ok, ok, I’ll put them on!” He picked up his tennis shoes and slipped them over his bare feet. This girl is sick, he thought. Probably picks her nose in the library. Seconds later Sarah walked into the lobby and gave him a hug, kissing him on the cheek. She seemed really happy to see him. “I think we better go outside for awhile, Jimmer,” she said as she put on a faded green army jacket. “I want to talk with you.” They left the dormitory and walked through its parking lot toward some tennis courts. Sarah directed his attention to the hillside behind the far end of the courts. “Unless you’d rather drive around off-campus, we can sit up there and talk.” She took his hand and he shook it loose. After a moment she added, “It’s kind of nice up there – kind of a nice view of the campus and all.” “Yeah, ok. I’m a little tired of driving.” They plodded up the hill until they came to a tree about halfway to the top. They sat down, and Sarah stretched out on her back. Jimmer looked out over the campus. Surrounding the school buildings, lake, and playing fields on three sides were the foothills of a mou
Cat and Mice
Cat and Mice
Misericord: Beverley Minster. A WILY WARNING: The poems attached to images in this set are based on the mediaeval French romances of Reynard the Fox. As mediaeval people had a much more bawdy approach to life than we do, some people may find the content of the poems rather offensive. They contain swearing, sex, sacrilege, violence, and sometimes a combination of all four. Sorry. REYNARD AND THE TIT Reynard is weeping beneath a hollow oak - He lost his grip on Chantecler, it makes him want to choke, His tummy grumbles like a bear; his lamenting is laconic: “I’m defeated by a cockrel - what could be more moronic?” A little tit sits on the branch; she looks down on Reynard; His eyes are covered by his paws; he’s groaning, “Life is hard!” But suddenly he sees the tit; his eyes turn grim and cruel, His tongue is lolling and his canines drip with lots of drool. “How nice to see you, dear tit! Why, verily, ‘tis bliss! Flutter down and give Reynard a gentle little kiss!” “Not on your nelly,” says the tit, “I know you all too well! I’d sooner kiss a stinking demon from the depths of hell.” “Dear cousin tit,” the fox persists, “You wrong me with such libel! Why, I will do you little harm - I’ll swear it on the Bible! I’ll even close my eyes,” he says, “so you won’t have to worry! Now come, and don’t be churlish, tit, but kiss me in a hurry.” The tit came down and in her beak she held a clump of moss, She brushed his whiskers; he snapped his jaws, “Now I’m really cross! You didn’t trust me,” grins Reynard, “I prithee, tit, why not? I offer you a humble kiss and you suspect some plot! Why are all the creatures here so blatantly untrusting?” He lies upon his russet back, his muzzle upward thrusting. The tit flits down, he snaps again, she flutters far above. “O! See how this poor fox is shunned, who offers tits his love!” Just then, six hounds burst through the green; Reynard yelps for fear; The tit scolds, “Reynard! Are you craven? You must come back here! With tail between your legs, indeed! You promised me a snog!” She laughs aloud and flaps her wings upon her hollow log. They snap at him, they worry him, they hurtle through the gorse, A hunting monk brings up the rear, upon a panting horse; At last he shakes them off his trail, for mastiffs have no wit; He pants and bleeds and from the branches laughs the little tit: “Alas poor Reynard, cousin dear, your coat is rent and torn; Your belly’s empty and your eyes are weeping and forlorn. I’d offer you some solace but, instead, I’ll give you this! I’ll crap upon your head, since you withheld from me your kiss!” REYNARD AND TYBERT Tybert the cat plays in a forest glade, Reynard is watching him from the leafy shade: He’s chasing his tail, pouncing like a kitten, Though fearsome is his pursuit, the tail will not be bitten. Tybert, Tybert, my furry feline friend, Though you chase your tail, snares will catch it in the end! “Welcome, Sir Reynard,” Tybert gives a grin, “You’re looking bedraggled, you’re destitute and thin!” Reynard gives a lowly growl, opening his jaw; He crouches amid the dust and slowly licks his paw. Reynard, Reynard, my russet vulpine friend, Though you may lick your paw, snares will catch it in the end! “Tybert,” says Reynard, “good feline fat and hairy, Perhaps you will join my band, a worthy mercenary? For I’m engaging Isengrin the wolf in all-out war.” Tybert purrs and licks his coat upon the forest floor. Tybert, Tybert, my furry feline friend, Though you lick your coat, men will flay it in the end! Then off they went together, though each despised the other, The cat swore his fealty on the gonads of his mother. The fox licked his lips, he saw a trap set in their way, And straight away he saw his chance, sly Tybert to betray. Reynard, Reynard, my russet vulpine friend, Well may you lick your lips, you’ll feed vultures in the end! “You’re lithe and you’re quick, cat, I find it quite impressive, Your eyes glow like cinders when you are aggressive: Show me how quickly you can run down this track.” Tybert gives a lowly yowl and arches his back. Tybert, Tybert, my furry feline friend, Well may you arch your back, ‘twill be broken in the end! Tybert isn’t stupid; he quickly spots the snare, He somersaults over it as if it isn’t there, And wily Reynard winks his eye, he says with a smile, “I never saw a feline run with such ungainly style!” Reynard, Reynard, my russet vulpine friend, Well may you wink your eye, ‘twill be poked out in the end! “Come then,” says Tybert, I’ll have another try!” He pounces above the trap, and onward does he fly. Reynard is frowning, he scratches at his flank; Two slavering mastiffs hurtle down the woodland bank. Tybert, Tybert, my furry feline friend, Well may you run away, you’ll be mincemeat in the end! Reynard starts to hurry off, he leaps o’er the snare, But calmly on the other side, Tybert’s waiting there, He trips the fox and drags him down, his leg lands on the trap, And Reynard yelps as iron

why does my dog lick the floor
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