Gemotions

The tiny apartment felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with the smell of damp kibble. Sarah slammed the fridge door, the resulting echo doing nothing to quell the insistent chirping emanating from the cardboard box. She'd told Mark. Repeatedly. No pets. They'd agreed. Now, a fluffy, perpetually hungry ball of fluff had commandeered the living room, and apparently, Mark’s entire supply of free time.

He was in the kitchen, cooing at the dog. “He’s just so *cute*,” Mark had said, eyes shining, when he’d first brought it home. Cute. Like a miniature furry landmine designed to disrupt every ounce of sanity.

Sarah ran a hand through her hair, picturing her pristine, well-organized life, now trampled under the paw prints of… well, of whatever this thing was. She grabbed her keys. Another late night at the library, then. Anything was better than this.