Dead dog on the racetrack

I walked that track behind the house of youth in Eastern Morocco. I would walk it because it had nice scenery and no one lived there. Because no one lived there I could be alone with out interruptions of tea. One day I was no longer alone. A secret lurked with me and so did a dog. One day that dog was dead. At first it was fine that he was dead. I passed the track round and round and it still seemed like he was alive. One day he started rotting badly and the smell became too much. One day I looked that old tattered carcass square in the face and stopped walking there and told my secret.

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