“Goddammit, why does she think this is okay? It’s our neighborhood! I’ll bet you she doesn’t have one fucking cat!” John hissed.

The smell was noxious; some sort of witch’s brew tossed out of a moving car like a newspaper. The fishy stomach chowder arrived at odd times of the day; it came delivered rolled up inside a paper plate, like a burrito.

“Marissa, we have to do something. Our neighborhood is infested with cats. Cats everywhere!”

“O M G! Did you hear them last night? There were five or six of them up in the big oak out in front of my place. It was a turf war between them and three raccoon. I should record that shit and sell it someone who makes those bloody horror movies. Joanine, did you hear them?”

Joanine looked up and down their once quite street. Waving her flabby arm, she pointed out the spread of tattered white plates. And she started to cry. “No, I didn’t hear no cats up no tree! Rufus and Stoner barked all night and I got cat shit in my garden! I swear, we gotta catch that bitch!”