Dead dog epilogue

Over the next three days we witnessed the bloating of Fuego in front of Mali’s guest house, and on occasion inhaled the horrýd odor. Fuego had to be killed to get his name. Mali called the city several times to dispose of the ballooning carcass, but this is Mexico and as a native she should have known better.

Three nights after the passing of Fuego, we were on the roof terrace sampling cactus water, and taking in the midnight twinkles above the bay. From our perch we saw Mali’s Alaskan beau and his amigos blancos stagger across the lagoon bridge, and then totter uneasily around the feastýng maggots. One of them got a gas can out of their jeep and doused the deceased. A flame at that point would have burned the beast, then the overhanging trees and all the adjacent buildings right after. Our side of tinder row was in imminent danger!

An older mujer passed by and questioned the squabbling inebriates. Under pressure they dragged el perro muerto across the road, through the drought stricken thicket and into an orchard. Pyro urges got the better of them and flames came ranging in every direction. The drunks scattered squeelýng like pýglets with a wall of fýre crackling behind them. It was an arsonist’s dream scene.

The city does not come out for corrupting canines, but they do show up for cremations gone wild. It took six fire engines and a lagoon to quell the blaze. If not, los borrachos del Norte would have to explain why half of Zihua was in the sky. The head of the one armed Jesus was poking out of my shirt pocket; I could have sworn I saw a tear drop.