You are a volunteer, a willing participant in the donation of yours and a handful of others' free time, for the good of the community.
Today, you and your cohorts are clearing a soccer field in a slum neighborhood. Or, what was being referred to as a soccer field, but was in reality a vacant dust lot- and unofficially the local dump- bordered on two sides by chain link fences and grubby shrubs, ramshackle homes on a third, and the unpaved dirt on the fourth passing as a road. The fact that neighborhood children routinely used it to kick a ball from one end to the other was purely incidental.
Everyone had been given strict instructions to leave any needles or dangerous, tetanus-laden trash alone, and to get a supervisor to deal with it, before being handed a heavy-duty hefty bag and told to get to work. Apparently, gloves weren't standard issue.
You immediately head for the far corner, where a pile of empty plastic bottles and assorted scraps was visible from clear across the field. The local children watch with wide, dark eyes, the language barrier stretching mutely between you, as you and your team spread out. You gave a smile at a little boy holding a rag soccer ball, and bend to your work.
The sweltering sun beats down on you as you make slow progress, filling bag after bag with old, dust-clogged trash. You straighten from time to time, to stretch your back and sweep the area with your eyes, checking the progress of the others.
You notice a few of your coworkers gathering around one of the small, scrubby bushes at the end of the lot. Wiping the sweat from your forehead with your forearm, careful to keep your contaminated hands from touching your face, you leave your half-full garbage bag where it is to mark your place, and head over to investigate.
The smell hits you full-on from 10 feet away, courtesy of a sudden gust of hot, grubby wind. The heat probably accelerated the rot and pervasion of the stink. Something is dead, but what, you're not sure. It's wafting from beneath a single bush, and though curiosity had attracted a small group of people, no one seemed to want to get close enough to find out what was actually under there. You sigh, then take in a breath of dust-choked air, holding it in as you reach forward, and pull back the brittle, half-dead branches. It's not much to look at: small, emaciated, with floppy little ears, and mottled tan and white fur matted with dirt, it's eyes mercifully shut. Probably crawled under the shrubbery to escape the harsh, pounding sun. Couldn't have been very long ago, or there would be carrion eaters gathering around. One of the volunteer boys picks up a stick, and moves to prod it. You grab the end of the stick before it reaches it's target.
"Don't. It will smell worse if it's moved." It wasn't visible, but you'd bet there were all sorts of slimy, wriggling, maggoty things on the underside of the body, already eating away.
"The poor thing," a girl blubbers, one of the teenaged discoverers of the unfortunate creature. The high-pitched sympathy in her voice is unexpectedly irritating, more so when her friends join in commiseration.
You turn away from the wretched, dead lump.
"Keep the kids away. They don't need to see that." You tell the others. You careful lower the branches, and step back. Turning away, you stride purposefully towards the roadside, where your team supervisor has stationed the supplies. He, too, had noticed the commotion and was already heading to check it out. You meet him halfway.
"We're going to need a shovel. Nobody's going to want to touch that with their hands, even with gloves," you inform him. "And we'll probably want to double bag it."
"What is it?" he asks, turning back to walk with you, and to collect the necessary implements.
"Dead puppy, by the looks of it."
He winces, but nods. When you get to the cart, he shifts uncomfortably. "Listen, I'll have some of the guys take care of it. You can go back to what you were doing." You pause, the shovel already in you hand. Blink.
"Fine," you say simply, relinquishing your tool, and head back to your abandoned trash bag across the field.
You don't look up again until your bag is completely full. You have worked your way across the full length of the lot, and you are now standing next to the first in the scraggly row of scrub bushes. You heft your trash-filled sack over one shoulder, and begin your walk down the row. As you pass one in particular, you notice the damp patch on the earth beneath it.
You keep walking.
True story. Happened on a mission trip I took to Mexico over 5 years ago.