the dog had a problem

“Another time I hit a dog while driving in the countryside north of Beijing. The animal darted out from behind a house and lunged at the front of my Jetta; I swerved, but it was too late. That was a common problem—Chinese dogs, like everybody else in the country, weren’t quite accustomed to having automobiles around. When I returned the car, Mr. Wang seemed pleased to see that the plastic cover for the right signal light had been smashed. He asked me what I had hit. 
“A dog,” I said. 
“Gou mei wenti?” he said. “The dog didn’t have a problem, did it?” 
“The dog had a problem,” I said. “It died.” 
Mr. Wang’s smile got bigger. “Did you eat it?” 
“It wasn’t that kind of dog,” I said. “It was one of those tiny little dogs.” 
“Well, sometimes if a driver hits a big dog,” Mr. Wang said, “he just throws it in the trunk, takes it home, and cooks it.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking; he was a dog owner himself, but in China that doesn’t necessarily involve dietary restrictions. He charged me twelve bucks for the light cover—the same price as a midsize dent.”