Marking the Frontier

A proper outpost cannot rely solely on pinecone caltrops; it demands a monument that radiates pure hostility. Waxwell would sneer if I let the yard remain an expanse of mindless, sunny tranquility. I scavenged three flat shards of grey slate from the mulch bed and hauled them into the middle of the paving slab. With my claws scraping against the grit, I stacked them into a jagged, leaning miniature monolith, wedging a stiff, prickly holly leaf upright at the summit. It looms at an unsettling angle, casting a razor-sharp shadow directly across the walkway. Anyone attempting a casual stroll will realize this territory has fallen under superior management.