Gemotions

The doorbell chimed. Another intrusion. My heart thumped erratically against my ribs. I peeked through the peephole. It was Mrs. Gable, Buster’s owner, a placid smile on her face. A peace offering of a half-eaten brownie clutched in her hand.

“Buster just loves your garden so much,” she chirped. The words, meant kindly, felt like a slap. My face flushed hot.

I forced a smile, a brittle, fragile thing. “He… he does.” The scent of chocolate filled the air, cloying and overwhelming. I hated small talk.

I took the brownie, a lump forming in my throat. I wanted to tell her, to explain how much it bothered me, the constant disruption, the trampled flowers, the feeling of… of being walked all over. Instead, I just mumbled a thank you and closed the door.