Gemotions

The morning sun, usually a welcome sight, felt like a spotlight on her fury. There it was again, that mutt, frolicking on her freshly mowed lawn, a brown blur against the verdant green. Her teeth clenched. She slammed the back door shut, the glass rattling in its frame. This was the third time this week, the third time she’d found herself chasing after a slobbering, oblivious canine across her property.

She grabbed the garden trowel from the shed, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle. Each stride towards the offending animal was measured, purposeful. The dog, sensing a shift in the morning’s peace, began to backpedal, its tail tucked between its legs. "Get out!" she yelled, her voice hoarse, the words torn from her.

The dog, of course, paid no attention, instead, stopping and starting to sniff at a rose bush. She stopped, breathing heavily, and considered the shovel in her hand, then threw it down with a clang. She wanted to scream.