Gemotions

From his vantage point on the porch swing, David witnessed Barnaby’s latest escapade. The dog, a blur of brown fur, bolted through the flimsy gate. David’s eyes narrowed. This was the third time this week, and the owner, a sweet, elderly woman, was clearly not able to cope. A surge of something unfamiliar, something that felt like… determination, coursed through him.

He pushed himself up, the swing creaking in protest. He strode toward the gap in the fence, the setting sun painting his face a fiery orange. He had a duty.

“Right then, Barnaby,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble. "Let's see about getting you home."