Gemotions

The tomatoes were almost ready, a glorious red against the green of the vines. He sighed, the sound like a slow leak in a tire. Then, a blur of brown fur, bounding across the newly mown grass. Barnaby. Again. He straightened, slowly, feeling the familiar ache in his lower back.

He’d swear that mutt had a homing beacon embedded in its skull, targeted specifically to his prize-winning petunias. He trudged toward the fence, not quickening his pace, already knowing the outcome.

“Barnaby,” he called out, his voice flat, devoid of any real expectation.