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to no follow-up.
    After adopting many of these dogs, which her neighbors collectively called the Cyborgs, Elvira often forgot to feed them. Her bowling balls grew dusty and she no longer remembered Ted, who now sang soprano during the dinner hour at the Sacred Crow’s Big House Casino in suburban Scottsdale, Arizona. She’d forgotten the perfect game. Much of the responsibility fell to her son, who constructed ramps around the house out of two-by-fours lifted from neighbors’ backyard projects. Young Moses Moon learned to feed the dogs on a regular basis and to chase them around the backyard for exercise instead of taking them out for walks, where people would often stare, take pictures, or call the police about that strange boy walking a horde of wheeled terriers, Cocker Spaniels, and schnauzers down the street.
    It was often Mrs. Singh who made these phone calls, disguising her voice as a man’s and playing the heavy metal music her son liked so much in the background. She was paranoid about the police recording her voice, scared of anyone in a position of authority coming after her or her family. Her father had died in Pakistan after speaking out against a corrupt zoning commission, mysteriously drowning in his own washtub, and since then any man in a suit caused the fine hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.
    Hiding behind her thick burlap curtains, Mrs. Singh had spotted the young Moses Moon stealing boards from her backyard. She had watched him allow the dogs to drop their feces in her gardens, ruining the tomatoes her husband liked so much. The dogs pissed through the cracks of the fence, causing weeds to sprout up in hard-to-reach places. In this neighborhood, she understood the houses were built very close together. In fact, the walls were shared. You had to learn to deal with your neighbors, and even be civil with people who didn’t know your name.
    Mrs. Singh appreciated these points of etiquette. And yet, every day Mrs. Singh watched travesties occurring on her property. The boy stood unchallenged. His crippled dog army slowly decreased the value of her property, which her husband could have explained was rented and not actually their problem. Unfortunately, since he figured this would only embarrass her, the issue never came up at dinner over platters of salted tomato.
    Once on a winter morning, Mrs. Singh had even gathered the courage to approach the door of the Moons’ townhouse. She rang the doorbell and was greeted by a towering woman whose blond hair was piled high up on her head. The woman only dressed in a pink loose-fitting gown and high-heeled shoes. She wore headphones, and her purple lipstick made jagged lines across her mouth. The house smelled like old milk.
    â€œAre you the mail lady?”
    Inside, Mrs. Singh heard the growing chorus of crippled dogs. She could hear their wheels bouncing down the stairs toward her as each second passed and the tall woman just stared at her. Outside in the rain, children on second-hand bicycles jeered at one another. There was no one around, no one to help pull the mutant creatures off her if this tower of a woman set them loose. Her husband would not return from his shift at the car seat factory for at least four more hours. By then it would be too late, and all he’d find would be her broken body covered in tiny bite marks and the treads of innumerable wheels that had cracked all her aging bones.
    Mrs. Singh ran.
    After her fifth call to the police, a patrol car finally came by to check in on the Moon household. All the dogs were inside. Moses kept most of them in the basement. He did his best to keep the smells down by hanging air fresheners from the lamps and lighting fixtures. He usually got them for free from car dealerships down by the highway, where he rode his bike to escape the smell of the house. He had to duck around this evergreen forest dangling in every room.
    â€œWe’ve had a few complaints from some