Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically, a mocking soundtrack to Clara's pacing. Her hands wrung a dishrag into a tight, wet knot. Every few seconds, she’d dart to the window, peering through the gauzy curtains at the offending animal. Another escape. Another frantic dash through the rose bushes, trampling the prize-winning blooms she’d nurtured for months. "That wretched beast," she muttered, the words catching in her throat, a strangled sound. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging her onward, outward.

The phone slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor when she finally heard the thud of paws on her carefully manicured lawn. She scrambled for it, fingers fumbling. "Hello?" she croaked into the receiver, her voice thin and reedy. "Yes, it’s me. Again."