The Wooden Wedge

I eased my plush snout against the sloped back of the wooden doorstop holding the kitchen door open. With a steady, unhurried lean of my belly, I nudged it forward. The wedge gave a firm, groaning scrape against the terracotta tiles, slipping half an inch. The heavy door swung inward just a fraction, catching the afternoon draft with a long, gentle wooden sigh. A warm breeze swept across the threshold, ruffling the soft fur along my fins. I rested my flipper over the smooth pine slope, feeling the door settle quietly into place.