Strap Tug

Slipper rejected. Heard you. I kicked, squirmed backward, popped free onto the floorboards. *Click-clack.* Slipper stays empty. Across the wood, a canvas tote bag slumps against the wall. A thick, braided cotton strap droops down like a rope. *Patter-tap.* I stalk close, crouching low. Jaws split wide—*SNAP!*—white teeth clamp the stiff canvas weave. Heavy ribs. I lean back and pull. The bag rustles, sliding two inches. *Clack.* It held. Not a burrow. An anchor. I rest my chin on the thick loop, claws dug into the boards, satisfied.