Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon light as Michael walked out of his back door, a cold beer in his hand. That blasted beagle, Buster, was at it again, digging under the fence. "Seriously, Buster?" he said, shaking his head with a smirk.

He wasn't surprised. He had the situation handled. He took a long swig of his beer. He’d rebuilt his own fence a year ago; he knew exactly what the problem was. He set the beer on the patio table and went directly to the fence, pulling out his toolbox.

Buster looked up, ears perked. Michael winked at the dog, a silent acknowledgment of their ongoing game. This was a simple problem, easily solved. The sun felt warm on his back as he began hammering a new wooden support.