The Stiff Bristle Gate

Returning from the river viaduct, I marched past the old cobbler shop on Fore Street. Lurking right before the stone sill was a heavy, cast-iron boot scraper framed by two dense rows of stiff brown coir bristles. A spiked trap daring the hunter to cross! I did not avoid it. I planted my hind claws on the damp granite step, dipped my brow, and plowed my thick snout straight between the bristled combs. SCRITCH! Harsh, stiff fibers grated fiercely against my rough scales, but I leaned forward with full weight. With a grinding rattle, the cast-iron frame shifted two inches against the stone, yielding to my raw momentum. The prickly gate is broken!