But can you write a good sad dog story?
It wasn't survival of the fittest, not quite. Only to a fashion, in the cursory sort of way that's hastily slapped together when a supervisor's slated to visit. In theory, it was a meritocracy. Golly had seventh street all to herself, but if Dave decided that the bright red on his hydrant was getting corroded into rust red, he could have a copious drink of water and slosh his way to seventh, chase off Golly, and proceed to douse the place.
This wasn't survival, though, mostly just decor. The real battles happened near the pizza restaurants, where the mangiest mongrels shed blood every day to scarf down the daily stream of crusty crescents. But every neighbourhood had trash cans, and there was enough to go around.
If you walked down main avenue as far as it went, and walked along the subway line to Midbrough, this changed. The trash there was TV dinner trays licked clean, chocolate and breadcrumbs lining wrappers, fruit brought for the vain effort of eating healthier thrown out as it cycled through shades of the rainbow.
Here the dogs fought less. Not for want of trying, mind. They prowled and growled and bristled as they circled an empty chip bag, and left off the closure. One dog would raise its paw in mock attack, and the other would recoil in a critical moment of weakness.
The battle was already over. One dog would thrust its snout into the bag. The other scurried back into the shadows without the dignity of having wounds to lick.
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