Deadened by gloves and ear plugs, the rumble of the lawn mower was under-water smooth while I watched her.
She sniffed it first, checking for ripeness or maybe bugs, and positioned it between her teeth.
Gently clamping canines and backing up, the red sphere snapped from the vine, shaking the fence.
Slinging strands of drool she trotted from the scene of the crime, proud and excited and bit down.
She squinted when she squeezed and tomato juice squished across the yard and, starting to chew, I yelled at her.
Beatrice the basset looked at me, startled, but did not stop chewing and I pointed at my eyes and then at her, twice, I think she understood.
The grass looks good, fresh cut, she lays on it digesting autumn fruits.
