Gemotions

The dachshund, a sausage of a dog named Winston, had squeezed through the gap in the fence once more. I watched him from my kitchen window, a plate of toast forgotten on the counter. My hand automatically reached up to my chest.

He paused, sniffing the air with an intensity that seemed almost philosophical. I was rooted to the spot, a feeling of disbelief and fascination washing over me.

His tiny legs propelled him forward, and he began to circle the birdbath. I leaned closer to the window, my breath fogging the glass, as if observing a rare and beautiful spectacle. He was completely oblivious to my presence. It was utterly captivating.