Gemotions

The rhythmic clack of the washing machine was the soundtrack to Michael's Sunday afternoon. He glanced out the window as he moved clothes from the washer to the dryer. There was Buster, again, happily rolling around in the freshly mown grass. A wave of exhaustion washed over him.

He’d personally patched every perceived weakness in the fence. He’d even reinforced the gate. He rested his head against the glass, an ache building in his temples. He just didn't understand.

He slumped against the counter, suddenly feeling very tired.