The animal is rigored stiff on the cutting board, its four legs pointed skyward like an upended footstool. In view of passing traffic, the butcher goes to work, sinking his cleaver into its side and paring off belly meat in neat flanks.
Soon, his work is arranged inside a glass display case packed with ice. Condensation beads on the ribs, thighs, hearts and livers – as well as one skinny tail, boiled bald but for a few stubborn hairs.
“Delicious!” calls out a vendor in upcountry Thai dialect. Her cryptic menu, tacked to a post, uses only the non-specific Thai word for “meat.” But she is happy to reveal her butchery’s secret.
“It’s all dog meat,” she says.“From those dogs that just roam around.”
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