The dog comes down the road, all loping insousiance, upcurled tail attended by a retinue of flies.

His speckled tongue lolls over brown teeth, searching the air for decay.

He muzzles through rinds and gristle, tosses wrappers streaked with oil, laps the slick skins of old boiled fish

and comes at last to Lazarus lumped at the gate. Filthy dog, the poor man says, afraid. You will tear me apart.

A long tongue finds an ulcered arm. The dog takes pleasure in this sour business, licking and licking the sores.

When all the sores turn pink, the Samaritan departs.