Stupid Little Shit Ate My Petunias

He hated that dog. The little shit was always digging up his flowers out front, stealing his newspaper. So today he wasn’t going to take anymore. That little dog would show up, eventually.

He waited all morning, net in one hand, dog snacks in the other. He was going to get that dog. Morning turned to noon, then after. Where the fuck was that dog?

It finally showed up, sniffing its little pink and black nose around the corner of the molding wood fence, little fuzzy tail wagging back and forth. Now he was going to get that dog. He sprang to his feet, net ready. But the dog must have been tipped off from its little dog friends, because it looked up with ears cocked back, alert. He ran at it, net overhead, but it turned and waddle-ran off.

He followed the dog into the street, down the street, across the park, into the next neighborhood. People were stopping, staring, pointing. He was going to get that dog. He was tired, the dog wasn’t stopping. But he was going to get that dog.

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