Gemotions

The sun was setting, casting long, menacing shadows. Michael, watering his garden, felt a chill crawl down his spine. He knew before he even turned around. Buster, standing there, tongue lolling, staring at him. He swallowed hard.

He slowly straightened up, his back stiff. He didn’t want to antagonize the dog. He was more afraid of the implications of the constant invasion, the disruption to the tranquility he had worked so hard to cultivate. This intrusion was a problem.

He backed away, trying to keep the dog in his sight, his hand hovering near his pocket. Each step felt like a victory and a defeat. He was losing control.