Ruth Wiggins

                              The  feral  dogs  can  smell   the glitch inside

                              the  cardboard  box  –  two salvaged female

                              pups, not  yipping  much, as they are carried

                              across    the    unadopted   lot,    their   sister

                              discarded   on   the   sidewalk.   The  tourists

                              (like  us  they are  here,  and yet they are not)

                              can't quite get with the programme. We have

                              three weeks on them and watch as they make

                              for the  grocery store, cardboard crib fading

                              in  their  arms.  Next morning, we  see  them

                              outside the temple.  The pups have spent the

                              night in a tee shirt,  dining on peas and tuna.

                              A food bowl improvised  from the bottom of

                              a  bottle,  moulding not  unlike their mother's

                              paw print.  They have a sign that reads – TO

                              TAKE – a little heart to encourage the monks

                              and stallholders. But no one wants a girl pup.

                              In  the  National Gallery  behind  Sükhbaatar

                              there  is  a bust entitled Give Me a Daughter.

                              Give  me  a daughter,  one with a soft-furred

                              belly,  fat   with  peas  and  tuna.  Make  her

                              golden eyed  and skittle legged,  and with a

                              bark to raise the dead.