Retarded Dogs Novels & Stories

to people’s ears, this loud barking could be heard but to Polly’s and Pilita’s ears it was more like “Intruders! Get out of here! This place is mine!” It was coming from a caged dog, a Pitbull-Terrier mix, and he was drooling of anger. The barking brought the owners of the house out. When they saw Pilita and Polly, they ran after them with a stick in hand. Pilita should be feeling afraid but she was not. It was thrilling for her. She had not used her legs too much and now she got to use them for long-distance walking, running and even jumping. Her enjoyment was cut short when she saw Polly trailing. He was running alright, but with much difficulty. His forearms and legs never allowed him to

I sat on the lengthy couch. One of the big dogs that has a silver dog tag with the name 'Four' is a passive type. I know from the first glance that it's a she. She let me rub her head and her tail waggles. The rest of the dogs have the same silver tags with their names that are after a number. The little wild type is called 'One'. Some are sniffing my knees. While soothing myself with the docile dogs, Linly gave me a cup of chocolate tea. "We're preparing for tomorrow's celebration, the comeback of the lost ones. I'm sorry if we can't address your purpose here yet."

Both men stared with eyes the size of saucers at the dogs that were staring back at them. There must have been eight or ten of the biggest, blackest rotweillers that they had ever seen in their natural born lives. They were sleek and shiny and every one of them had on heavy spiked collars. They were all looking right at the two men...and they were all growling... .....

“I’m thinking of getting a dog for the manor.” I leaned in. The wallpaper was a picture of a Golden Retriever, its front paws over a fence, its back half hopelessly stuck. His dark eyes met mine over the top of the screen, a predatory glint in their depths. “I’ve heard,” he said, his voice deceptively casual, “they’re notoriously bad at escaping.”

One of the dogs almost tripped in its haste to escape. The Renner family had had those dogs ever since they'd been puppies, and they'd been raised on raw meat, trained to bite humans. Everyone in the village would take a detour whenever they saw the dogs. This was the first time they'd acted so cowardly. Garrett continued blowing on the whistle. When he noticed that the dogs were running faster and faster, he called their names. "Money, Penny, come back! Here!" Money and Penny refused to. Animals sometimes had a sharper sixth sense than humans. They knew clearly who they could and couldn't antagonize, and Aria obviously belonged in the latter—she was practically the devil incarnate!

It was a rather innocent question that screamed I-do-not-want-to-talk-about-this-right-now! She chuckled, “Oh, God, no, I’m too old for that.” Did I also add that I now hated the word old? Yes. Yes I do. “I shall be turning Eighty in a few days, Alpha.” At Eighty, elderly wolves have to retire to a retirement home. The age was wired to make them weak, no matter what their rank in the hierarchy was. It was going to be the same for every wolf. Alpha Tauren was at least 78 but I couldn’t wait to send him into that retirement home before he’s even eighty. His likes didn’t deserve to roam around.

"I called you eight times, Stella. Even Charlie wouldn't buy that you were just zoning out." Charlie, their beloved family dog, had been rescued after his previous owner abandoned him due to an injury to his left leg. They stumbled upon him by chance and could not leave him behind. After spending a hefty sum on his leg treatment, they watched as Charlie grew into a large, one-year-old dog who was extremely attached to them. "Quit being such a kid," Stella chided him. "Go read a book or play your mobile games or something." "I'm now a head taller than you, probably as tall as Lucas," John retorted.

I start walking again and he follows me. – How long are you going to hide like a mouse? You have a name in every country, a fingerprint in every database,” he whispers. In the kitchen, her dog is slumped on the carpet. It was supposed to be a Belgian shepherd ten years ago, but the animal is too old. Virtually deteriorates. "Like a ghost", I suggest. "Like a coward," he corrects.

I looked to the back of the helicopter to see Roddy and two other dogs placed in a carrier. The other two dogs which were Weimaraner looked like what they really are, hunting dogs while Roddy looked totally different from them being a Tibetan terrier. The dogs were going to help us find the predators quickly by sniffing the air for their scent and leading us to them. I watched as they tried to intimidate Roddy because of their heights by baring their teeth at him and to my amusement Roddy bared his teeth back of them that for a moment I thought he was the hunting dog not them.

After a while they stopped trying. It took longer than I expected. He was an Alpha, and Alphas burned through drink faster than ordinary wolves. But cup after cup, it started to catch up with him. His shoulders loosened. His eyes went soft and unfocused. He started muttering to himself, low and slurred, words I couldn’t catch. When he finally pushed himself up off the bench, he swayed. I was at his side in a moment. “Come on,” I said quietly. “Let’s get you back.”