Why did the New Yorker publish Yellow?

Are you serious? The New Yorker must get a thousand story submissions a week. With the prestige and resources of the magazine, the editors can publish the best short fiction in the world. And you're telling me the best they can come up with is this peculiar little story, Yellow, by Samantha Hunt? Huh? I don't know anything about Hunt, and I hope she's a young writer with promise and that this story sets her off on a brilliant career. It does show some promise - I'd probably really praise it if I came across it in a grad seminar. But come on, what is there to this story that makes it exceptional? It seems wobbly and uncertain of itself, which may be intended to give it a postmodern edginess but instead makes it feel random and arbitrary. On a literal level, the story is ridiculous: a very nebbishy 42-year-old living with his parents, out of work, afraid of night noises in the house, seemingly stepping right out of a George Saunders story, heads off in his car, strikes (and kills) a dog, carries the dog to the nearest house, taken in by a woman whose husband and kids are out at the movies, they kiss, they screw, the dog comes back to life, woman tells him he has to kill the dog with a shovel, he takes the dog out behind the house, husband and kids come home from the movies and he looks at them through the window. Given that nothing here makes sense, what is the point of it? Are we in the first episode of a movie or (more likely) first chapter of a novel, in which the characters (or one of them) has some kind of magic power - a linkage of sex and death as in say Gravity's Rainbow? Maybe there's more for Hunt to say, but taken on its own, though, Yellow is little more than a curiosity. I'm curious as to why the NYer published it - anyone else?