Gemotions

The morning sun glinted off the perfectly manicured lawn. Brenda sipped her coffee, the ceramic warm against her hand. Across the fence, Buster, the perpetually escaping beagle, was happily digging in Mr. Henderson's prize-winning petunias. Brenda chuckled, a low rumble in her chest. She'd predicted this. Yesterday, she’d watched Mr. Henderson wrestle with the loose latch on his gate, shaking his head and muttering about "foolproof" solutions.

She stretched, the motion expansive and relaxed. The scent of freshly cut grass, meticulously maintained by her hired gardener, drifted through her open window. It was a good life. A predictable life. A superior life.

She considered calling Mr. Henderson, offering her "help." Perhaps she'd casually suggest a sturdier fence, a slightly more expensive solution. After all, she was practically an expert on preventing escape.