Gemotions

The gate. It was always the gate. Old man Hemmings and his perpetually escaping beagle, Winston. I knew what was coming before I even saw the dog. The tell-tale thump of paws on the fence, the excited yipping.

"Winston!" I shouted, already knowing it was a lost cause. He was halfway across the yard, sniffing at a patch of recently turned soil where I was hoping to plant some sunflowers. My hands tightened around the hose, the cold metal digging into my palms.

I watched Winston lift his leg, and the impulse to drench him was almost overwhelming. Instead, I took a deep breath, willing myself to remain calm. It never worked, did it?