Diary of a Dead Dog

It was some time in December. At least, I think it was December since there was brown-tinted snow covering the tarmac as I walked along the yellow lines on the side of the road.The rock I was kicking hit something solid. I say solid not as in hard, but as in something substantially soft that seemed to be lying on the side of the road. I had neglected to look up from my feet until I stopped perhaps a couple centimetres away from the obstruction. A furry, grey body was silhouetted by the streetlamp protruding out of the ground twenty-five feet away.