"Hai! Go long!" I shout to a mangy-looking, emaciated, nursing, flaccid-bottomed dog. She's seen and smelled the bowl of dry dog food my dog, Kai, has abandoned. She's hung around for the past week; Kai plays with her, sometimes.
Kai has had the taste of hot meals, ones of fish heads and chow mein, of chicken fat and rice, of beef bones and farine, and does not like the dry food.
The mangy dog does not immediately shy away, as many of the cowed dogs do here, but neither does she desperately inch closer to the bowl to take a pilfered bite then fly out. As I get up out of my chair and make medium-strength sounds of dismissal, she walks, slowly and sadly to my gate. I close the latch behind her.
I realize she's just a nursing mom, looking for some sustenance for herself and possibly pups. But I treat her as I treat all dogs that aren't my own - with ostracism.
"Maybe I should let her have Kai's discarded breakfast; Kai should learn that she needs to eat what's in front of her - there's other dogs who aren't as lucky.
"Maybe I should let her eat the food; Kai is certainly in the position to miss a meal, and this dog may not have had a decent meal in awhile.
"But - what about the next meal? Can I provide the next one, when she comes back for more?
"But - what about the other dogs in need? Can I feed them as well?
"If I say yes now, I'll have to say yes next time.
"If I say yes now, it'll be harder to say no the next time.
"If I say yes now, they'll feel they can come again, expecting the same.
"Better not to help at all."
I keep the gate closed, and ignore the mangy-looking, emaciated, nursing, flaccid-bottomed dog, just as I do all the rest.
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