Gemotions

The scrawny terrier, a blur of white fur, was back. Again. It bounded across the lawn, its tail a frantic metronome, and began sniffing at Beatrice’s prize-winning roses. Beatrice felt her jaw tighten. She’d tried everything – polite requests, stern warnings, even leaving a bowl of water near the fence. Nothing worked.

She clenched her fists, the nails digging into her palms. That mutt, she thought, and its owner, the perpetually apologetic Mr. Henderson. A sigh hitched in her throat, but she ignored it.

"Not today, you little rascal," she muttered, and marched out, a garden trowel clutched like a weapon. She wouldn't be bullied by a dog.