The noise is starting to abate as the bets are settled, and some of the men are leaving, but I'm watching Red and his owner as they approach me.

'He did well,' I tell him. He nods, and I reach my hand down towards the dog.

Half a warning comes from the man, but too late. The dog reacts swiftly, tilting his head, opening his jaws, and biting down on my hand.

Luckily, he seems to have done something to his jaws during his struggle, a dislocation maybe, and the teeth only indent my skin without breaking it.

I pull my hand back and the man mumbles what could be an apology or a comment on the stupidity of a man offering his hand to a fighting dog. He drags Red away, who is whining either in pain or from disappointment at not having removed my hand. I stand and stare at my hand, starting to feel the drag of the other in the back of my head, telling me to return to my sleep.

There is a thick slop of blood, mucus and saliva on my hand, and I watch as it runs and drips from my finger, wondering how much of it is Red's and how much of it came from the torn throat of his opponent. Without thinking, I turn to leave, wiping the mess onto my jacket and pants, cleaning most of it from my hand.