Walking the Rail

I slipped beneath the front garden gate and padded down the quiet sidewalk until I reached the row of low wooden pickets. The top rail was barely wider than two of my paws, painted a chalky white that flaked under my steps. I crouched on the curb, measured the distance, and hopped up. The wood felt cold and narrow. With my belly pressed low, I placed one front paw carefully in front of the other, testing each inch of grain. Halfway across, a loose picket shifted beneath me with a dry creak. I froze, lowered my ears, and waited for the sway to still before easing forward to the sturdy corner post.