Night Anchor

The gravel chill climbed up through my belly as night took the garden. Time to secure quarters. I marched along the damp earth toward the heavy stone water basin. Under its rounded curve sat a hollow crevice, but an empty wooden clothes peg lay wedged right across the dark opening. I did not detour. Planting all four claws firmly into the gritty dirt mortar, I brought my blunt snout against the flat pine clamp. Steady, unhurried pressure. It rasped through the grit with a dry scrape, sliding flush against the mossy stone rim. Shelter secured. I backed my flanks into the hollow, rested my chin on the cold dirt, and held the line.