The Iron Crank

A cast-metal pencil sharpener was clamped tight to the edge of the oak desk. I stepped onto the green blotter without making a sound. A blunt yellow pencil was already lodged in the front aperture. I reached up and struck the crank handle with a firm, calculated swipe of my forepaw. The internal gears engaged with a harsh, ratcheting grind. The handle completed a swift half-turn, paring away a paper-thin ribbon of cedar before I pressed my pad against the knob to brake the motion. The scent of shaved pine and dry graphite drifted across the blotter. I tucked my paws against the heavy iron frame, keeping quiet watch on the door.