It is a terrifying sight to see wild dogs fighting. They scrabble around, pawing furiously, snarling, snapping, scratching. And as you watch, the words 'animal instincts' take on an entirely new meaning.
And yet, there is something perversely beautiful about it.
Something in the way these filth-covered, bloodied, bruised beasts throw themselves at each other. Twisting, writhing. Lunging for the other's throat, looking to rip out the jugular. With every last fiber of their being.
And you could gather a crowd, throw stones, even beat them with sticks. But they will ignore you.
Because the fight isn't over till one of them is dead.
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