Gemotions

The mangy mutt, a creature of boundless, slobbering enthusiasm, was at it again. This time, he'd trampled through Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning petunias. Reginald gripped his gardening shears, the metal cold and unyielding against his palm. He watched the dog bound toward his rose bushes, a furry, four-legged wrecking ball. He considered the sheer audacity of the animal, the blatant disregard for property lines and human effort. His jaw tightened.

The dog, of course, was oblivious, tail wagging furiously as it sniffed at a particularly fragrant bloom. Reginald could practically *feel* the dog’s owner, that flighty, empty-headed woman, smirking behind her curtains. He took a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of roses now mingled with a growing, unwelcome anger. He slammed the shears down on the brick path, the sound echoing in the otherwise peaceful afternoon.