Potato and the Little Wooden Bridge

I slipped beneath the front gate into the bright sidewalk warmth and waddled toward the tree box. A flat, clean wooden craft stick lay propped between two smooth river stones, spanning a dark gap in the damp mulch like a tiny suspension bridge. I held completely still for three quiet breaths, waiting while a distant bicycle whirred past. When the breeze settled, I inched forward and placed both front paws onto the flat pine slat. It gave a faint, springy flex beneath my weight, holding firm above the wet soil. I took four careful, waddling steps all the way across, keeping my fluffy toes clean and dry.