Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Harold’s temple as he watched the frantic chase. Mr. Gable, his face the color of beetroot, was sprinting after the fluffy white cloud that was Fluffy, their Shih Tzu. It always happened. The fence, supposedly repaired last week, was apparently no match for Fluffy’s tiny but determined paws. Harold leaned back in his wicker chair, a slow smile spreading across his lips.

He picked up the newspaper, the rustling a deliberate sound of leisure. He’d warned them. He'd even offered to help, subtly suggesting a different type of fencing altogether. They had declined, of course.

The sound of Mr. Gable tripping over his own feet was almost musical. Harold took a long sip of iced tea, the cold liquid soothing on his throat. He would give them a few more minutes. Just enough time for them to truly appreciate the error of their ways.