“Whose dog is this?" I asked a nearby tobacco seller, squatting in
the stone alcove that was his store.
“Nobody dog,” he said. “Bastard dog."
“'Street dog,'" said a pilgrim.
I picked her up and the pilgrims kindly made way for me. I carried
her to the Saturday café, a popular veg restaurant that had a donation box with
a phone number for an animal shelter. We were in luck: a veterinary nurse was
working nearby and agreed to meet me by a big brass bell near the stupa. And I
exhaled. Surely the shelter would welcome this poor puppy, she’d be taken care
of, and my job would over. I could go back to thinking obsessively about that
plot problem and enumerating my mid-life regrets.
