Dead dog

I saw a dog die today. I was leaving work early, feeling pretty good, chatting with my girlfriend, when she shouted, "oh no!" I looked up to see a white object, like a windblown plastic grocery bag, swirl through the air. It was immediately apparent that it was not a bag, but a white dog--a whippet-like thing. The car that had hit it just kept on driving. My girlfriend stopped the car, and we went to see if there was anything we could do to help. The dog's mouth opened and shut a couple of times, then copious amounts of blood started to flow from its mouth and nose. Within 5 seconds, a deep, red pool the size of a frisbee had formed under its head. He still had a leash attached to his collar. His back leg twitched as if someone was rubbing him in just the right place. It was clear that he was dying or dead. With the exception of the profuse bleeding from its nose and mouth, the dog showed no other signs of trauma.

I started toward the dog, to at least move him from the middle of the road. I wasn't intending to pick him up, and I was trying to determine whether I would reach around his body to move him, or whether I would just grab his leash. I decided I'd at least reach around his body; pulling on the leash seemed macabre. I thought about the long smear of blood that would run from the place he lay, to the side of the road where I would drag him to. No sooner had I started toward the dog when I saw a woman come running around the corner, somewhat distraught, asking if we had seen a dog run by. There were three or four of us on the curb at this point: my girlfriend and I, and a couple of people who had seen the whole thing go down from the sidewalk. We all looked in unison toward the street. I think I might have pointed. The woman cried, "no!" and ran to her fallen pet in the middle of the street. "No!" she said again, and scooped the dog into her arms. She made the whole decision of how to move the dog look terribly easy. As she picked it up, its his head dangled at the end of its neck, with a thread of blood that dripped from its mouth into the puddle in the street.

Up until this point, the scene was little more than sad--I felt very bad for the dog's bad luck--but the grieving lady made it all too real. This wasn't just a dead animal; it was going to be profoundly missed.

Almost on cue, a sheriff's cruiser pulled up to investigate the commotion. The woman sat on the sidewalk, leaning against the drugstore, weeping, clutching her dead dog, and the sheriff started asking people questions. My girlfriend and I decided there was nothing more we could do, so we hopped back in her car, and we left.

I know I'm a little more susceptible to sentimentality in such scenes, seeing as I nearly died in the middle of the street after being hit by a car, but I was still surprised at how much this whole thing had jarred me. The levity of a moment earlier was entirely erased. I felt much like I did that day I had been hit: acutely aware of the abrupt change in one's reality that occurs when flesh meets a speeding mass of metal.

I think it was the leash that really got to me, though. I figure that the woman must have let go of the leash, just for a moment, and the whippet-like dog was off like a flash. I didn't see the actual collision, but according to my girlfriend, the dog was running like a bat out of hell, and the driver had no chance to stop. I can only imagine the second-guessing the dog's owner is going through tonight, as she ponders: "if only I had paid just a little more attention. If only I hadn't tried to open my car door with both hands full," or the inevitable litany of scenarios she's playing through her head that end prosaically, with her pet intact, instead of dead.

Conspicuously absent from this sad scene? The driver of the car. I never saw the car, only the immediate aftermath, but I couldn't imagine hitting someone's pet, and driving off without even an investigation into the animal's well being. Like it or not, you've got a responsibility to the animal and to the fellow human being whose pet you just killed--however unavoidably--to pay your respects. That's the way I see it, anyway.

Um, maybe you'd be pissed too

This Mother Jones article includes what has to be the best humongously long sentence I've come across in a while, offering a series of explanations as to why the insurgency seems a bit more motivated than the official Iraqi army to innovate and take the initiative:

What if we invaded a country under false pretenses; occupied it;, began building huge, permanent military bases on its territory; let its capital and provincial cities be looted; disbanded its military; provided no services essential to modern life; couldn't even produce oil for gas tanks in an oil-rich land; bombed some of its cities, destroyed parts or all of others; put tens of thousands of its inhabitants in U.S. military-controlled jails (where prisoners would be subjected to barbaric tortures and humiliations); provided next to no jobs; opened the economy to every kind of depredation; set foreign corporations to loot the country; invited in tens of thousands of private "security contractors," heavily armed and under no legal constraints; and then asked large numbers of Iraqis, desperate for jobs that could be found nowhere else, to join a new "Iraqi" military force meant to defend a "government" that could hardly leave an American fortified enclave in its own capital.