Sunday, April 19, 2009

White dogs, the cemetery and fried chicken

Skin and bones

I once spotted a half dozen stray dogs who had found refuge at the Cementerio de Cristóbal Colón in Havana.
They were all white. At least that's how I remember it.
The dogs played among the tombs of the dead, chasing each other and nipping heels. They curled up in the shade of stone crosses and angels, escaping the summer heat. They snapped up scraps and bones at a nearby fried chicken restaurant.
Their lives were secure. Or so it seemed. The chicken restaurant was some 50 feet away, on the other side of a busy street.
No matter, the white dogs scampered across, dodging lumbering '57 Chevys and '55 Fords that belched black smoke.
Some of the dogs made it back to the cemetery alive.

Others did not.

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