Dalat had been developed by the French as a hill station to escape the heat of the plains. Most of the western style vegetables eaten in Saigon were produced in Dalat. The market in town was always thriving, although when eating there on outside tables I've never seen so many flies which also seemed to flourish in the climate. The girls all had a healthy flush to their cheeks.
The Vietnamese always seemed to be eating. One moment we would sit down to a dish of very small birds the name of which I've forgotten, another KC would take me to some obscure isolated wooden hut-like structure in the kitchen of which I had one of the most delicious noodle soups I've ever had. There again I wish I could remember the name.
One day coming back to the house I found the dog was dying. It had that look in its eyes that dogs have when they know their days are up. Evidently a passing soldier had shot it. No reason was given, perhaps it had just barked at him. I was always wary of single, armed, sometimes drunk rogue soldiers whose actions were unpredictable and who sometimes settled personal or imagined grievances in a violent manner.