Execution

Last night I witnessed an act that, even by my standards, was utterly reprehensible. Several people at my workplace have complained about being harassed by stray dogs recently, and the reaction was admirably swift but needlessly cruel. I had my share of a moment of poignance when I fed the adorable stray puppy, partaking in whatever small amount of joy it had as it nibbled on a bone. Little did both of us realise that it could be his final delicacy, as a horde of men-scavengers equipped with a whole variety of vile equipment arrived shortly after, ostensibly sent by the authorities. It will be difficult for me to forget how the puppy was prodded and forced out of his refuge of bushes, how he made a final desperate sprint for his budding life, how the sadistic cheers resonated in my ears when they successfully swung a noose over the puppy's neck and pulled and dragged and twired him around like some world championship trophy. It compounded my depression to realise that I might never see him again.

Does the puppy remind us of our own lives? Compelled by circumstances to abandon our zones of nourishment and security, forced out into the open by hawking and prancing eyes ready to swipe us for the kill. Yet can any of us be as innocuous, as blameless, as undeserving of suffering as the puppy? When retribution, pain, sympathy and justice weave each other into a precarious fabric of right and wrong, is there someone out there wise enough to come to terms with it all?