For stray dogs living on the streets of India, territory is everything. If not born into a territory you're going to have to carve one out. And that can be fatal.

 
I was walking back to my room one afternoon from a morning at the beach in Arombol, India, when a small black and white dog crossed my path. He stopped to sniff fhrough the garbage on the side of the road. I walked over to him and took a closer look.

Terrible damage was done to Julie's other side. You don't want to see.

Julie was eight years old. Supremely sweet and loving. She was so, so loving as Dr. Raja worked on her for two and one-half hours. She had soft fur, white and a whispy light brown. She was clearly loved and well-cared for. A relative of the owners had brought her in.

Jack, a pedigree male doberman, was given away as a young puppy. Our first contact with him was a report of an adult doberman. In terrible shape. On the roadside. Abandoned. He was a year old. Cadaverously thin. Not able to stand up well. The life knocked out of him. Spirit broken.