Iv been doing a breed a day to try and raise money for my top surgery

u can whatch me draw them on my tiktok, user Eardogg

u can show support by reblogging this post, viewing, liking, and commenting on any number of my breed a day tiktoks and/or donate

Goal: $18,000

So Far: $231

Cashapp: $donniepawvito

Paypal: eardogg

Venmo: eardogg

P.S. my commisions are open if anyone is interested :D

First batch of drawing one dog every day.

I’m going in alphabetical order based on the American kennel club plus my own dogs for their birthdays. I also wanna do historical dogs like Laika and Togo when those relevant dates come around.

We’ll find out how powerful my dog love is if I can get through drawing all 250+ dogs in the AKC.

Special little boy Jesse turned 1 back on March 17th. Yes he is named after Breaking Bad Jesse Pinkman and for those curious he’s a Australian Cattle Dog (aka Blue/Red Heeler) mixed with a Pembroke Welsh Corgi.

Ran out of cards 😅

Honestly where is the rest of Coonhound Tumblr I want more Coonhound pics in my life

golden hour ✨

1.) Small black dog in a blanket: Dilly, Dog, Dachshund mutt, Male, 7 yrs old, ESA

2.) Upside down black and white dog: Lucifer, Dog, American Bully, Male, 4 yrs old, ESA

3.) Grey Cat: Arthur, Cat, Cat, 5 yrs old

4.) Sad looking black and tan dog: Moxie, Dog, Coonhound Lab Mix, Female, 2 yrs old, ESA, SD in training

#dog #cat #coonhound #american bully #dachsund #labrador retriever #mixed breed

Adorable!

Gotcha Day

It’s Bee and Ruby’s Gotcha Day! For those of you who might know be in the know, because if you’ve never adopted a human or animal, why would you! So… ‘the gotcha day is the anniversary of the day on which a person or a pet joins a family by adoption.’ Isn’t that great! I gotcha in my family now! Miss A’s gotcha day, you may remember, is February 14th, how perfect is that! And Ruby and Bee’s…

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American English Coonhound

These sleek and racy, lean but muscular hounds work dusk to dawn in pursuit of the wily raccoon. The sight of the American English Coonhound tearing through the moonlit woods, all sinew and determination, bawling their lusty night music, is coon-hunter heaven. Standing as high as 26 inches at the shoulder, American English Coonhounds are deep-chested, sweet-faced athletes beloved by sportsmen for their speed and endurance. Stretched tightly across the athletic frame is a medium-length coat of various patterns, some with ticking. The head is broad with a domed skull, with soft, low-hung ears and dark-brown eyes that glow with warmth and kindness. American English Coonhounds are mellow when off duty but tenacious and stubborn in pursuit of their ring-tailed prey. Their work drive and energy, the patience it takes to train them for things other than coon hunting, and their loud, ringing bark can make the breed a bad fit as house pets for novice owners. Some passionate fans of American English Coonhounds feel that without a sporting outlet for this breed's houndy virtues, you're simply wasting a good dog. (source)

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Crowns  // Kate Daniels

for Philip Levine

Around the time I first read the poetry of Philip Levine, my teeth were fixed. Two or three hundred bucks (I’ve forgotten now) purchased a brand new me, two porcelain crowns. In the dentist’s chair, my midget canines were filed down to sharp, bright points hardly larger than the bronzed end of a Bic pen, then crammed in the black-backed caps of two hardened, china fakes. No more covering my mouth to obscure the evidence of faulty genes. No more tears at images embezzled from graduation picnics when Darrell Dodson picked me up and slung me in the pool, and someone took a picture of my lips slacking back to reveal my gums in what appeared to be a scream. No more breezes winding through the gappy pickets of my ill-grown teeth and down my throat. No more worrying some boy would snag his tongue in the zigzagged bulkhead of my upper row, and bring us both to blood.

I’ll love Levine forever for confessing his own struggles with orthodontia, his rot-plagued “Depression mouth,” a dentist called it, his cavities and root canals, his occipital pain, for his photograph in Antaeus, the summer of ’78, the stained and crooked slabs parked compellingly behind his grin. Our teeth connected us before the poetry, he, from the immigrant onion-eaters and temperate tipplers of Manischiewtz. I, from a long line of tannin-stained Irish Catholics who smoked themselves to fragile states of calcium depletion, and a recent run of Carolina gritballs, too poor to brush, too ignorant to care their teeth retired in early middle age. I can see them now, perplexed before an apple’s crispy rind, frustrated by a succulent, stringy rack of pork ribs barbequed in the side lot of Earlene Worsham’s gas station south of town. Levine would have understood my uncles, enthroned on plastic-covered kitchen chairs patched with tape, their work boots kicking up mucky clouds of chiggery dirt, their pick ups parked nearby, shotguns in the rack, sucking on cheap beers and harsh cigarettes, their nails starved by nicotine to yellow curls, the car grease embedded permanently in the creases of their hands.

When I met him, he was such a mensch, massive in my mind, but in the flesh, something touching about his shoulders in the worn tweed jacket, something vulnerable in his feet in an ordinary pair of soiled, white sneakers. He opened his mouth to laugh, one side rising up like it does, in that derisive gesture that seems, at first, a sneer, and I remembered my mother flexing back her lips to remove delicately, with two stained fingers, just so, a fleck of tobacco lodged between her teeth, and saw again my father flossing at the table with the torn off cover of a paper book of matches, then stubbing out his butt in the yellowed, oily pod of broken yolk that was hemorrhaging across his breakfast plate.

I can face those images now without the shame I carried in the days before the poetry of Phil Levine liberated me. I can look at anything now, because I keep his picture in my mind and his poems in my pocket. I can stand my life because I wear the crown he constructed for people like me — grocery checkers, lube jobbers, truck drivers, waitresses — all of us crowned with the junkyard diadems of shattered windshields and rusty chains, old pots with spit tobacco congealing inside, torn screen doors and gravestones in the front yard, just five short steps from life to death…

So there is my family with their broken beer bottles and patched shoes, their mutts chained in a back yard carved from a stingy pine woods, on cheap land out near the county dump where the air swells with the perfume of trash, a circle of them playing poker in a trailer somewhere in the woods, or razoring the state decal from the windowshield of a ransacked wreck to transfer to my brother’s car. Or cleaning fish on the back porch and throwing the guts to the tick-clogged dogs, or frying venison in a cast-iron pan and stinking up the house with that heavy smell, showing the buck’s big balls in a plastic cannister that once held salt. Or burning tires in a field some autumn, scumming the sky with a smoky, cursive black they can’t even read but inhale poisonously again and again.

And there I am, walking along tolerantly now, with Phil Levine, his poems in my pocket, his good rage gathered in my heart and I can love them again, the way I did in the years before I saw what they were and how the world would use them and accepted the fact they were incapable of change. We’re in a field I used to love, a redbone coonhound running ahead her ears dragging the edges of the goldenrod till they are tipped in pollen, like twin paintbrushes dipped in gilt. And the world is hunting dogs and country music and unschooled voices bending vowels and modest kitchen gardens where late tomatoes are tied up with brownish streamers of old nylon hose. The vast way your chest expands when the sun gradually sets in mid-fall in central Virginia. The tobacco barns glimmering in last light, the chinks darkening now, the slats solidifying at the close of day and your mind opening up like the pine forest swishing fragrantly overhead way up in the dark that is coming, but remains, for the moment, beautifully at bay.

Current warm up/practice project! I really struggle with drawing certain types of dogs (read: scenthounds) so hopefully this helps 🥰🤞

American English Coonhound