Gemotions

The rustling in the bushes again. Sarah froze, hand instinctively flying to her chest. Her heart hammered a frantic tattoo against her ribs. She gripped the trowel, knuckles white, the gardening gloves suddenly feeling too tight. The shadow that detached itself from the azaleas was too familiar. Buster, the golden retriever, again. She'd put up new fencing last week. This was getting ridiculous.

"Buster! Go home!" she called, her voice thin and reedy. It wasn't the dog she was truly scared of. It was the lack of control, the violation of her meticulously crafted peace. He just stood there, tail wagging, a furry brown intruder in her carefully curated world. She took a step back.

Her gaze darted towards the back door, then at Buster. Should she try to shoo him away? He seemed friendly enough, but the feeling of someone, or something, constantly challenging her carefully built defenses was unsettling. She dropped the trowel. This wasn't going to end well.