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again,” he said, setting down his goblet of water. “Didn’t you call the pound?”
    “Are they doin’ it again?” she asked.
    “There’s another spot down by the mailbox, Suzanne. I don’t see how you could miss it.”
    It seemed as if every house in Red Hill Plantation had one or two purebred hunting dogs, and shortly after moving to this part of town, Suzanne discovered that few people actually trained or disciplined these dogs, let alone hunted with them, so they roamed in packs, like bored teenagers in a mall, through the curvy streets and cul-de-sacs of Red Hill Plantation.
    A group of Labradors had begun using Suzanne and Boone’s front yard as a bathroom. The turds were bad enough, but what bothered Boone even more were the more permanent, random yellow stains from the urine. “It looks like we don’t take pride in ourselves, Suzanne,” he had said. “Please find a way to get rid of those dogs.”
    Obviously, she could not call animal control; these creatures belonged to her neighbors. After calling Chatter to leave a complaint, Suzanne tried simple verbal intimidation at first. Then, when no one was looking, she would pelt them with the brick samples she’d been carrying around in the trunk of her Lexus. Exasperated, Suzanne finally placed behind the potted dogwood topiary a tastefully aged-and-green copper bucket that held squirt guns filled with gasoline or Tabasco sauce. The problem was, the dogs would saunter in, do their business, and be on their way before she could even get to the front door.
    “I just don’t know what to do about ’em, Boone,” she said. “I’ve tried everything.”
    He pushed his plate away from him, finished. “You’re smarter than a bunch of dumb dogs, Suzanne.”
    “Maybe Virgil knows what to do.”
    “I sure hope so. I didn’t pay to plant winter rye just to have it look like that. I’m wanting that yard to look nice for the Christmas party, and that means green grass without doggie stains on it.”
    Suzanne stood up with her plate in hand. She walked over toBoone’s end of the table, picked up his plate, and disappeared into the kitchen with the dishes. Boone had not eaten but half of his salad for the third straight night—or was it four now? Five? How could he suddenly not like the salad? It was the exact same salad she had served for months, even the same Wish-Bone Lite Caesar dressing. If he didn’t like the salad, why didn’t he tell her? Or had he? As Suzanne crammed lettuce down the garbage disposal with a wooden spoon, she tried to reconstruct the hazy, brusque conversations of the past several nights.
    Suddenly, she heard a dog bark. Grabbing a dish towel, Suzanne walked quickly to the front door, drying her hands along the way. She looked out the window, clicked on the outside light, then opened the door. On the porch, Suzanne reached into the bucket for one of the guns and pulled out an orange one filled with gasoline. It had “Avenger” written along the barrel in blue letters that were slanted to give a feeling of movement.
    She ran out toward the street until she reached the most favored spot in the yard and stood there in the darkness, somewhat out of breath, smelling the dank ammonia odor that wafted up from the moist grass, waiting there, with her finger on the blue trigger. Across the yard, Suzanne could see Boone inside, watching the news from his leather wing-back chair. He had moved the floor lamp again to the left side of the chair, which put it too close to the lamp on the desk. John David had said the two light sources needed to be farther apart, and Suzanne would return it to its proper spot before going to bed.

Three
    Dear Chatter: Is it true that Toyota’s giving health insurance to homosexuals? The Lord did not want men to be with men, and that goes for white or yellow men, too. It doesn’t matter. We’re all the same in God’s eyes.
    Dear Chatter: Can anyone tell me how to get rid of moles? Please respond in Chatter.
    R