Gemotions

The audacity of it! Every single morning, there it was: Buster, the golden retriever, happily trotting across the meticulously manicured lawn, leaving paw prints in the dew. My roses, I thought, my prize-winning roses! He'd just trample right over them, as if they were nothing more than a weed. I clenched my jaw.

I marched over to Mrs. Gable's, my gardening gloves still on. Her porch swing creaked rhythmically as she sipped her coffee, a picture of domestic tranquility. "Buster," I said, my voice tight, "is, as usual, enjoying a stroll through my property."

She just smiled that infuriatingly sweet smile, the one she always gave. "Oh, he's just a playful pup!" she chirped. Then she reached down and patted Buster's head, as if this was normal. I wanted to scream.