Gemotions

The scowl on Martha's face could curdle milk. That mutt, Buster, was at it again. This time he'd dug a fresh hole under the fence, a muddy testament to his repeated trespasses. Martha marched over to her shed, grabbed her garden shears, and stomped back to the fence line.

"Not today, you flea-bitten rascal," she muttered, snipping away at the offending vegetation that offered Buster any sort of cover. She worked with a furious energy, hacking back the overgrown bushes.

Her back ached, sweat beaded on her forehead, but she refused to stop. Let that owner try to catch him now, she thought, a grim satisfaction settling in her stomach.