Setting it upright

A small terracotta seed pot was lying on its side against the stone curb. I waddled past the open lobby door into the warm afternoon air and sat low on my haunches beside it. The baked clay was dry and gritty against my paws. Leaning my round belly forward, I pressed both paws firmly against the circular rim in one slow, steady shove. The pot tilted with a raspy scrape across the flagstone, rolling upright until it settled flush on its flat base. A few crumbs of dry potting soil tumbled from the drain hole. I rested my chin against the rough rim, completely content with the quiet.