The dogs are amateurs. Walking forward endearingly, leaning to the side on chewed up legs, angling heads in submission, they produce only a nervous pity. Tourists give them food, but not by hand. When they are tired from standing, or uninterested in the basicila that crumbled in an earthquake, and bored of the open market that replaced the caved in church, they throw snacks to the center of the pack. They wait to see which dog will snatch it.

Don't touch, they'll bite your hand off.

A few mangier looking dogs arrive and form a circle. It's a loose circle, permeable; no one is quite threatened, barring some childhood accident in which the jaws of something closed tightly around them. Only a slight fear tenses against familiarity, big teeth versus pathetic legs, both sensations passing through an invisible membrane that hoods the scene.

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