Through the letter slot

I parted from the heavy parcel and marched straight toward the front door. The scent of the street was calling from the threshold. Near the base of the door hung an old woven shoehorn made of dense ox horn. I did not step aside to search for an open crack. Lowering my head, I levered the curved horn beneath the heavy draft-stopper snake guarding the gap. With a steady thrust of my shoulders, I rolled the dense fabric away. The bottom corner of the wooden door yielded slightly into the exterior hallway. Fresh, cool air rushed across my face. I planted both hooves over the brass sill, ready for the outer world.