Gemotions

The dachshund, a sausage of a dog named Winston, was at it again. This time, he'd managed to squeeze under the rickety fence and was currently strutting across Beatrice’s perfectly manicured lawn, leaving little muddy paw prints. Beatrice, watching from her kitchen window with a mug of chamomile tea, felt a little twitch at the corners of her mouth. She clutched the mug tighter, a small chuckle bubbling up in her chest.

She watched Winston sniff at her prize-winning rose bushes, his stubby legs pumping furiously. Good boy, Winston, she thought to herself, picturing his owner, Mr. Henderson, chasing after him in a fluster.

She took a slow sip of her tea, the warmth spreading through her.