Iron Sentry

Cold garden air cut off behind me. Pet hatch clicked shut. In the shadowed mudroom, a squat black silhouette guarded the trench beneath the cedar bench. Heavy cast iron. Twin curved horns jutting from an unmoving carapace. A motionless sentry. I sank low onto the slate floor. Evaluated the center of mass. No scent. No counterstrike. I stalked forward, driving the ridge of my snout beneath the twin prongs. Planted my hind talons into the stone grout. A sudden, rigid heave upward. The dense metal dragged across the slate with a harsh, grinding screech, wedging tight against the cedar timber. An immovable bulwark. Slipped into the dark blind spot behind its flank. Redoubt secured.