In 441 words, how a soccer player from Cameroon comes to perish (Part 4)

Preface: see this post for an explanation
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Entry date: 1/20/10

It was Monday morning and Mehann was late for work as usual. He sped down Sepulveda Boulevard in his 1987 Dodge Omni and as he neared Olympic he noticed with a touch of disgust that the light was rapidly switching modes, from green, to yellow…he floored it, but too late, for the light had turned angry red before he had even cleared the intersection. 

Entry date: 1/23/10

And in the instant between when the light turned red and his car crossed the pedestrian lane, Mehann saw it. “Fuck” he thought, but before even that word could be complete, he struck it: an adult, white Russian Wolfhound which had escaped its owner’s hands and fled into the middle of the busy street. Goddamned dog was humongous. It was the size of a horse, Meehan thought just before his small car’s grill indented itself in the dog’s large flanks.

Entry date: 1/31/10

Shocked and disconnected from reality, he steered the car abruptly into the curb lining the center median. He heard a muted pop and attempted to regain his senses as his car rested in the road. Cars honked as they swerved to avoid him and the prone dog which struggled to stay alive in the next lane where it had landed. He slowly looked over and saw the large white dog raise its head repeatedly and drop it back down to the ground as the effort became increasingly difficult for the injured animal. It’s hand legs pointed upwards and flailed unnaturally. For a moment, Mehann wished he had a pistol so he could put the animal out of its misery.
And in the large, grass-covered center median, stood a shrieking woman, a brunette with long tanned legs.

Entry date: 2/15/10

Mehann was frozen as he stood outside his car. The woman ran to the dying dog. She clung to the leash which had detached from the choke collar. Each successive spasm to issue from the dog’s prone body dwindled in intensity as it lost the struggle.
The woman bent over the dog and wailed.
“Chipo, Chipo!” she yelled repeatedly, like a mournful chant. “Oh Chipo!”
Mehann could only watch the scene play out in conjunction with the noisy soundtrack of morning commuters as they honked and skidded and gunned their engines in the background.
Chipo’s movements stopped. His muzzle finally rested peacefully on the pavement, his eyes open wide in a deathly stare.
As she continued sobbing uncontrollably, Mehann roused himself to approach her. When she sensed his proximity, she spun and glared at him. She stood and shrieked, “You killed him! You killed him!”
She began to belt Mehann with the leash. “You killed him!”