Gemotions

He watched from his kitchen window, the steam from his coffee clouding the glass. He had seen the dog twice already this week. Each time, the small terrier, with its ridiculous floppy ears, had been sniffing around his rose bushes. The dog's owner, Mrs. Gable, was elderly, bless her heart. He felt a deep unease settling in his stomach.

He was the one who mowed the lawn; he had seen the gap in the fence, the tiny space Sunny could wriggle through. He had just been putting it off. The thought of confronting Mrs. Gable, of the disappointment in her eyes, held him back.

He closed his eyes and poured another cup of coffee. He’d deal with the fence today, he swore to himself.