At lunch time, I had to wander down the street to get some things.

Not far from work, there’s a corner that’s somewhat blind. There was a truck stopped there in an odd spot and a group of people comforting a sobbing teenage girl. It was something about her dog, who hadn’t been on a lead and had run out in front of the truck.

I kept walking because there’s nothing worse than the feeling of being gawped at by strangers when crying. But the whole thing made me feel kind of tear-y because although some people are rather heartless when it comes to animals, so many people love their pets and they almost become (or do become) a member of the family. They can be a best friend, a confidant, an exercise buddy, replacement children, anything like that. And you still love them even when they wee on the best rug.

When I was on the return journey, the truck was gone, as was the group of people. What was left was a splatter of blood and flesh on the bitumen, with a dark purplish-red finger of blood reaching out to the gutter.

It smelled like iron and I had to rush past because it was somehow so horrible and final and the tears were prickling behind my eyes.