I pull our rented scooter off a road choked with slow moving cars and motorbikes.
The odd Kamikaze swerves through on a Vespa as if he doesn’t want to see next week. I park beside an adjacent muddy path near a large pile of garbage–tin cans, plastic bottles, wood and broken glass.
“Is that dog dead?” I ask my wife.
She climbs off the bike and looks to her left. “Don’t go near it,” she warns.
I once threatened to lift the tail end of a wild jungle python. Now she thinks I’ll touch almost anything, dead or alive.
I step a few feet forward. The dog is dead.
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