The dog wasn’t dead. I saw her shape in the corner of my eye as I left my office building, headed into the cramped back alley to buy some chocolate.
I got a good look on my way back, nibbling my Kit Kat. Thick cords of yellowish gunk trailed from both eyes and ran down her snout. She was so skinny — her body looked grotesque, like she wasn’t a dog anymore. A collection of bones. Foam bubbled thickly from her mouth. I felt like vomiting.
She stuck in my mind over the weekend, like so many other upsetting images have: that naked baby girl lying in the dirt, in the sun, next to a busy road, like drying laundry; that dog beaten to death with a pole while kids ran to watch; and now, this living skeleton.
That Monday, I left my office during lunch, this time to buy a butter paneer sandwich. Again, in the corner of my eye, I saw a paw. And when I returned, I saw her get up and trot down the road. She didn’t look to be in any better shape.