Gemotions

The clatter of the gate slamming, followed by the familiar yipping, was enough. A vein throbbed in Amelia's temple. She slammed her gardening shears onto the potting table, nearly decapitating a terracotta gnome. This was the third time this week, and the dog, a slobbering golden retriever named Buster, was currently frolicking across her meticulously cultivated petunias.

Amelia marched outside, her jaw set. "Buster! Get out of my yard, you overgrown…!" she sputtered, her voice rising with each word. The dog, oblivious, offered her a slobbery tennis ball. She wanted to hurl it back at his grinning face.

She took a deep breath, trying to regain control. "Go home, Buster," she said, her voice strained. He just wagged his tail harder, nudging her hand with his wet nose. She felt her hands clench.