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We’ve had our share of dogs during the years: Fido, Butch, Babs, Sammy, Old Dog, Ursinha, Sheba, and Marly, and Neguinho were their names. In here now laying, at our feet and sometimes in our bed are, Branquinho, Cookie, and White. That's twelve—three in our stateside years and nine here in Brazil. Dogs are more plentiful here because there is no Humane Society to kill them. Oops.  Anyway, I just heard one of our neighbors beating the buggers out of his dog. It seems to happen about once a week. You hear the dog screaming and would love to sock the neighbor in the kisser. However, we can never catch the person in the act. By the time we realize that it is "beat the dog" day, we can't get to the gate fast enough to discover precisely where the massacre is taking place. It's a frustrating sensation.  Why is it that I feel so strongly about dog beatings, and I don't care as much about people going to hell? I see a stray dog and always feel bad. I see a street per...