dying neighbor

While taking the neighbor's dog (Budweiser Chuck's yapping Yorkie Shockey) for a stroll yesterday I heard a howling for help from a neighbor's house. Being a good boy scout (haha) I approached the dwelling--with caution of course. The screaming continued. Upon peering in the window I spotted a sorry looking guy lying on the floor half naked. I yelled through the window, "Are you OK dude?"

"No I'm not OK, I need help," was the response from inside. The front door was locked so the dog and I climbed through the window. Shockey howled, the guy moaned, and I began wishing I'd never been born. I needed this action like I needed a hole in my fucking head. The dude was lying face down at the foot of an old green couch which was covered by a large patch of nasty yellow puke. Next to the vomit lay a pack of Winston's, half smoked; there was a large, half-empty bottle of cheap vodka perched near his head. I figured the guy had fallen off the couch and injured himself because it didn't appear he could move. He was emaciated and looked a little like prisoner from Dachau; it didn't appear showered in weeks and huge purple splotches covered his entire body.

The house reeked of vomit and other foul odors; dirt and food particles were spewed across the floor; crumpled, filthy sheets lay next to his unmade bed. I nearly heaved myself. Anyway, I told the guy I would call 911 and quickly departed. The emergency squad arrived minutes after my call; they were very familiar with Michael as this was not their first visit. Evidently he's diabetic. There was a part of me that felt for the guy, thinking why in heaven's name isn't somebody taking care of him. On the other hand it didn't appear he was doing much for himself. Who knows. I haven't followed up.