Walking down the street early this morning, I saw a man on the opposite side stop, peer down and examine a pile of brown and white fur by the side of the road.

The pile, not long before, had been a cat, but it had since become a banquet hall for flies. The man stared at it for a full fifteen seconds or so, then picked it up by the end of its tail. I could see the flies dancing around it all the way from across the street. I could also see the dangling entrails.

He plopped it down on the lawn a few meters away, under a tree. The flies resumed their feast. The man wiped his hand on the grass.

Then he strode on down the street.

It made my hands tingle with sympathetic bacteria. It also made me wonder. Did he think the grass was a nicer resting place than the gutter?