One of my neighborhood pups died yesterday.

He was born not more than a month ago. I first saw the whole lot of them, brothers and sisters and all, at the wall around the corner of my house. They were just newborns then I guess, and were lying one on top of the other, warming themselves against the cold. They were each about as large as my palm. :)

We would periodically feed the m, so she would come around our street once in a while. It's adorable to watch all of the little buggers following her every move, short paws scampering around, jumping up at her and fighting for milk. She's tired most of the time and it probably takes all of her patience to deal with every single one of them clamoring for food and attention.

Yesterday had been a good day. Perfect, in fact. I got home feeling happy and generally at peace with life.

A car ran over one of the pups. The tires went over both his hind legs and he was hurt so badly that he couldn't even get himself to the safe side of the road without help. We calmed him down a little, but only after we managed to convince him - with slow movements and lots of petting - that we didn't mean any of the harm he had just become victim to. He settled down into the ground, exhausted and horribly injured.

My siblings and I put him into a little bag, fearful of holding him ourselves and worsening his injury. My sister drove like a maniac trying to get to the nearest Cupa as quickly as possible.

In the 15 minutes or so that the little guy was on my lap, snuggling into my hand, I grew more attached to him than I thought possible. Black with white patches but with an all-black tail, droopy ears and a quick pulse. He was so small and so vulnerable, and heartbreakingly adorable. Even in the midst of all the bleeding, he played with my hand and brushed up against the fibers of the bag he was in, playfully growling and blinking big brown eyes at me. I decided that when all of this was over, I would make him a little shelter and feed him every day. Call him TP, for TriPod. He would need the humor to help him survive the tough stray life.

When we finally got to the clinic, they told us that his entire back was shattered. And this included both legs, the bones of which had literally broken apart into pieces. His tail was crushed and wouldn't move. They didn't think he would be able to recover at such a young age, that trying to endure those injuries would kill him. So the more humane option, they said, would be to put him to sleep.

What choice did we have? My sister signed the papers, and I cried the entire way home.

How do those people live with themselves? This street is never busy. Couldn't they have waited for him to cross over to the other side and then drove on? Was it a genuine accident or some sadistic thrill? When they ran him over, everyone in every house on the street heard his cries. How could they not stop? Did they not have the hearts? Consciences? Souls?

Why do they get away and why does such an innocent creature die? How does that make any sense?