Gemotions

The tomatoes. They were finally ripening, plump and red, just begging to be plucked for a summer salad. Now, there was a slobbering Great Dane, nose twitching, pawing at the base of the plants, sending half-ripe green fruits tumbling to the dirt. Amelia slammed her gardening shears onto the potting table, a metallic clang that echoed across the quiet afternoon.

She marched over to the flimsy fence, hands on her hips, and glared. Again. It was always the same. Spot, that behemoth, would make his escape, and her hard work would go down the drain, literally and figuratively.

"Spot! Get out of my garden!" she yelled, her voice sharper than she intended. The dog merely gave her a look that could only be described as supremely unconcerned, then nudged a particularly choice tomato with his wet nose.