The Resonant Glass

I pressed my snout against the cold, smooth flank of a glass milk bottle left upon the damp porch slate. A silver foil cap sealed its mouth. Falling drops from the eaves tapped the taut foil, sending a sharp, tinny ping into the quiet morning air. I planted my forepaws firmly on the grit and shoved the heavy base with my chest. The thick glass slid an inch, scraping stone, then held fast. Within, the white liquid churned against the glass, swallowing the vibration. The seal stayed shut. The chime ceased. I rested my chin against the bottle's chilled rim, satisfied with its anchor.