"Where do they go? I mean, in the daytime?" asked Christina. "You would think that you would see them all the time, but no." 

And just then, as if summoned by some heretofore unnoticed power in her simple human voice, was a coyote standing in the middle of the street, mouth open, tongue out, looking directly at them with what looked like a sly, animal smile. They took a slight step back, wondering if they should prepare for a canine attack-

But the coyote clearly determined and knew instinctively: Not a threat. And it trotted to the side of the road.

Ben and Christina just stood there, stunned. They watched the coyote non-chalantly make its way around the side of the house, and then the thing leaped -straight up- and over what must have been a six foot fence. It was impressive. And it had disappeared.

Christina whispered, "Was that it? Was that the one?"

"No. I doubt it," said Ben. "They travel in packs. It could be..." and then he realized he didn't really know what he was talking about. This coyote ran alone.

"Man. I've never seen a dog jump like that," Ben tried to change the subject line.

Christina looked at him with her BS meter red-lining, but she didn't say it. "I can't believe we were just talking about coyotes, and then BAM. A coyote."

"Well, that's the damnedest thing," said Ben,

Christina just sighed. "Yeah." 

And they moved along.

~

But Ben and Christina's cat had, in fact, not been killed by a coyote. Their cat, Cliche, had been intentionally driven over by Saul Indergand. He was almost drunk, or close enough, as he left the local brewery and took side roads home (to avoid the Friday night DUI checkpoints) to his 2500 square foot, high-ceilinged, fully IOS-automated home in the suburb closer to the beach. 

He'd had a few "double" IPAs, brewed by the local hop geniuses, and after that he'd decided to drive by the old house, the one he'd sold at top dollar to that nice couple with no children. The suckers went for it, he recalled fondly when asked, and it was his ticket out of there. Out and away. Away from the Naked Runner, the annoying evangelists, and away from his insufferable wife. Out of that neighborhood forever, if he could help it. "To a better suburb."

Except that's where the good beer was. So he went back, for the beer, from time to time. 

The brewery was in a non-descript, low-rise industrial park, as was the fashion in the area. Guys made beer, and they did it well. Well enough that they needed no 50 inch flatscreens over the shwanky mahogany bar, nor granite countertops in the Men's Rooms. No, they made good beer. The men would come, these brewers thought. And they did. Others came, too.

Saul was asking for another, and the bartender took personally his moving. "No! I try and get back here whenever I can! You guys know I love your IPAs more than anyone's!" and the kegworker just handed him another "large" taster. He remembered the story. Had heard the whole thing, and had had it recounted to him by other employees.

"It's just..." and Saul looked off into the distance, (though the walls were mere feet away.) 

"Ever since Roxy was killed. Taken. When that guy ran her over so intently. It was obvious that he hated her. So I had let her crap on his lawn once. Or twice. What of it?! I usually picked it up!"

The bartender drew the conclusion, at this point, that Roxy was a dog, though Saul Indergand had always spoken of her as if she was a cat. It made no sense, but neither did he care, otherwise. He had beers to pour. When he tuned in again, Saul was still talking.

"I guess everything fell to shit right after Roxy was taken. I've never really made the connection, exactly. But after I lifted her bloody, lifeless body from the street. And looked around to see who would come... Saul stopped at this point in the story. Always did. And finished the last finger in his pint.

"I just..." He trailed off.

BING BING BING BING! The bartender had rag a bell. "A NEW KEG IS BEING TAPPED! LIFT YOUR GLASS!" and everyone gathered around to see the brewmaster emerge with several odd tools. He made his way smiling, amidst applause, to a formal, ceremonial oak barrel, (though the beer had mostly come from the warehouse-sized steel fermenters standing nearby) and he popped a rubber bung out and jammed a tap into its hull. Everyone cheered, and beer was poured.

And Saul, quiet in the corner, holding back what may have been a single tear, thumbed his iPhone and pulled up a photo of "Roxy". A small Irish terrier with a simple canine grin. 

He leaned to the celebratory group next to him. "This is Roxy." He sobbed.

"TO ROXY!" the nearby boys yelled, and the entire beer hall responded.

"ROXY! HO-HO-HO!"

And Saul left, somewhat insulted. He took the old roads home, and drove by the old house on Outlander Court, offended by what they'd done to the place. He'd planted that tree! And now where was it? And why'd they repaint? And those new vinyl windows were an abomination. He was especially angry that they'd torn out the driveway and had it replaced with pavers. He'd poured that driveway himself, mostly, one spring weekend. And now it was gone. So were the handprints that he and his wife, Chin, had impressed in the corner. And the dog prints. They were gone, too.

So he hit the accelerator and drove over the first pet he saw,

~

Araceli had a list, too, like Jake. Her list was numbered, and it was numbered on the curb of her street. 

Araceli Flores walked the cul-de-sac, praying for every house as she stroll past. It was not a habit for her, nor was it a ritual. But it could, she reasoned sometimes, be deemed a "discipline", as it wasn't easy. And she often found it difficult to justify that anyone on the street actually deserved it.