Gemotions

"Damn mutt," I muttered, scraping the mud from my favorite shoes. It was the third time this week that Buster, the beagle, had dug his way under the fence. His owner, old Mr. Henderson, just shrugged and chuckled, blaming Buster’s “terrible nose.”

I spent a sleepless night, seething. The image of Buster, tail wagging, carefree on my property, gnawed at me. The next morning, I was outside early.

I surveyed the yard, a new plan forming in my mind. I spent the day buying bags of the smelliest, most potent fertilizer I could find. It wasn’t a pleasant task, but the satisfaction I felt spreading it thick around the perimeter of my yard was… remarkable.

The next time I heard Mr. Henderson’s frustrated yell, I just smiled to myself, and went inside to make a nice cup of tea.