The Burning Dog

In 1987, recently divorced, I was with a survey team in Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, or some such flat place.  That morning we went out to a guyed tower antenna, and as we got out of the trucks I saw something smoking fifty yards from the work site.  Ignoring my boss, who I would have laughed at as he drowned, I walked over to the combustion.  It was a large brown and black dog, probably a German Shepard, and someone had poured gasoline on it and set it aflame.  There were no signs of struggle or pain, the dog must have been dead when it was set alight.  In that area any car would have been seen in any direction, so it must have been torched at least a half an hour before we showed up.  It's face and chest were considerably charred, and I have no idea what had happened.  I got yelled at plenty when I walked back to the survey crew, I remember thinking it was better to have two corpses burning in one spot rather than fifty yards apart.  I have always been considerate of others.
The year before, my dad and I were driving up to Lake Texoma to work on one of his boats, and that is when I saw the burning cat.  I have never told this story to anyone before.  I was going to kill the cat when the only person in the world I listened to told me no.  We left before the police got there.