A rustling in the nasturtium,
hoping to make a run to the wood pile.
Tommy could smell him from the porch,
lunging into the air like a high jumper.
Over and over and over again.
“He’s killed three of them so far,
his breed is bred to hunt rats, you know.”
“They aren’t rats.” said Meta Jane.
“It’s not right, they’re no match for him.”
“He’s earning his keep, saving the garden.”
She stopped talking,
not wanting to dignify that last comment.
Fidgeted and ran her fingers
gently across her forehead.
She really needed that ASMR video
almost craved it.
Was that supposed to be a joke?