Jennifer Phelan

Born Dublin, 1982.

In the garden, the dog walked up to a wall, pushing his nose into each crevice. Seeing, it was exactly as how he had left it, he slouched back to his sitting position outside of the door. With little on his mind, the dog again decided to check his posts, finding them as expected, untouched. Meandering back up to the window, a mess of mud, paw prints and scratches that had been listened to indifferently by those inside, he began to wait.

Pushing his face up to the window he could detect some activity inside. Here was his moment. Scratching madly at the infuriatingly non-existent glass door, he listened for that defining moment. Then it came, the patter of footsteps, the slight hiss as the latch recoiled back against the frame and the dragging sound as the door was pushed open, bringing a gush of warm musty air that gave a rush to his head. Head down, ready for force if all needed, the dog took his chances and plunged into the waiting space. His tail cocked, exhilaration was in the air.