A Brass Turn Button

I wriggled out from under the coir mat and stretched my front paws onto the weathered wood. Right above the bottom edge of the screen door, an old swivel turn button hung loose on its single screw. I paused, tilting my antennae to catch the morning sun gleaming across its tarnished brass curve. With two careful hops, I clambered onto the raised door sill. I nudged my plush chin upward against the latch's flat tail. It gave a dry, metallic creak, pivoting halfway around in a smooth circle until it pointed straight toward the sky. Resting my paws against the brass stem, I peered through the tiny square mesh.