I called the sheriff and he said “Well, you do live in the county,” code for go ahead and make the neighbor dogs disappear we don’t care at all. I’ve noticed the heads of pit bulls resemble the coffins of children, as far as shape. They lope more than scamper, these pit bulls, one gray as middle age and the other the tawny yellow of a Tuesday meeting with a close-talker. The girl mowed the lawn in a pink bikini and a Kafka body. The guy held the ambitions of a fallen pear. So I knew the problem would end naturally soon (it did) and I wouldn’t have to Soviet Union the poor dogs. Wouldn’t have to make them vanish. Instead I made nachos.