Mark sticks his mother Mary in a kennel beside the television.  It’s the best solution, he thinks, easier than having her run loose around the house getting into trouble.  Once he caught her painting on the wall like Rembrandt.  Another time she was out back chewing a daffodil.  “Bad Mummy,” Mark scolded.  Mary’s grown accustomed to the cramped kennel quarters and spends most of her time dreaming.  Sometimes Mark sees her kicking legs and flailing arms as if she’s running.

Mark keeps the curtains closed.  He feeds Mary macaroni & cheese out of his dead dog’s bowl morning, noon, and night.  A special treat is chili.  Once in a blue moon Mary gets barbecue.  She laps water from a teacup.  He takes her for walks in the backyard using her new rhinestone collar.  She lifts her leg over jasmine.  “Good Mummy,” says Mark, “let it all out.”  He opens the curtains every full moon, weeps in his boyhood room as Mary claws the kennel and howls.