Uit: The 25th Hour
“They found the black dog sleeping on the shoulder of the West Side Highway, dreaming dog dreams. A crippled castoff, left ear chewed to mince, hide scored with dozens of cigarette burns-a fighting dog abandoned to the mercy of river rats. Traffic rumbled past: vans with padlocked rear doors, white limousines with tinted glass and New Jersey plates, yellow cabs, blue police cruisers.
Monty parked his Corvette on the shoulder and shut off the engine. He stepped from the car and walked over to the dog, followed by Kostya Novotny, who shook his head impatiently. Kostya was a big man. His thick white hands hung from the sleeves of his overcoat. His face had begun to blur with fat; his broad cheeks were red from the cold. He was thirty-five and looked older; Monty was twenty-three and looked younger.
“See?” said Monty. “He’s alive.”
“This dog, how do you call it?”
“Pit bull. Must have lost somebody some money.”
“Ah, pit bull. In Ukraine my stepfather has such dog. Very bad dog, very bad. You have seen dogfights at Uncle Blue’s?”
Flies crawled across the dog’s fur, drawn by the scent of blood and shit. “What do we do, Monty, we watch him rot?”
“I was thinking of shooting him.”
Awake now, the dog stared impassively into the distance, his face lit by passing headlights. The pavement by his paws was littered with broken glass, scraps of twisted metal, black rubber from blown tires. A concrete barricade behind the dog, separating north- and southbound traffic, bore the tag SANE SMITH in spray-painted letters three feet high.
“Shooting him? Are you sick in the head?”
“They just left him here to die,” said Monty. “They threw him out the window and kept driving.”
“Come, my friend, it is cold.” A ship’s horn sounded from the Hudson. “Come, people wait for us.”
“They’re used to waiting,” said Monty. He squatted down beside the dog, inspecting the battered body, trying to determine if the left hip was broken. Monty was pale-skinned in the flickering light, his black hair combed straight back from a pronounced widow’s peak. A small silver crucifix hung from a silver chain around his neck; silver rings adorned the fingers of his right hand.”
David Benioff (New York, 25 september 1970)