Driving along the roads of Jamaica, dead dogs and, very occasionally, dead goats, line the road. They remain there for weeks, eventually disintegrating completely. Call me perverse, but I started counting dead dogs on my way to various places. It depressed the children and I stopped. I regularly counted more than ten on a two hour journey. I have heard, but cannot corroborate, that young men think it is fun to hit the dogs and will go out of their way to have a laugh, swerving unexpectedly to hit the dog against its head, to minimize damage to their own car. The dogs lie there, crushed awkwardly, their bellies swollen like balloons, or their entrails, bright pink, yellow and dark red or brown, slung across the tarmac. Their teeth snarling at eternity. Their lying there, frames the road, toegether with the narrow ribbon of litter at each side of the road. They are punctuation marks of distance. They remain smell-less to a car bound society. The civilised have been reduced to inertia, muttering sympathetic tut tuts and the walking, walk past. Who knows if they do this in rebellion?