The Mexican

He slinked into town one balmy July afternoon.
The desert sand filled every vacant wrinkle on his face.
He hadn't eaten for three days.
He licked his dry, cracked lips.
His legs felt weak.
His body felt weak.
A comfortable bed was a distant memory.
People pointed.
Tongues wagged.
The stranger kept walking.
No familiar faces.
No friendly faces.
Twenty miles to the next town.
A mangy mongrel looked him up and down.
He returned the disdain.
He turned a corner.
And then...
A young girl patted his head.
"Mum, look at this poor Chihuahua, can we take him home?"