The Cast Iron Grill

I trotted down the remaining stone steps into the bright afternoon, reaching the square patch of soil around the curbside maple. A thick, decorative cast-iron tree grate circled the trunk, its dark metal ribs warm under the sun. At the inner edge, a weathered wooden ice cream stick lay wedged upright between two narrow iron slots, trembling with every passing car's rumble. I paused, planting all four paws firmly against the patterned ironwork. Lowering my snout, I delivered a sharp, steady shove to the timber stick. It dislodged with a dry, hollow clatter and dropped cleanly flat across the dirt beneath the grate. The surface stood level and unobstructed. I sat upright on the iron rim, absorbing the faint metallic pulse vibrating beneath my joints.