A Rhythmic Sphere

A faint rolling rattle echoed beneath the iron patio table. *Click.* Head tilted eighty degrees. An uninspected sphere—a hollow plastic practice golf ball perforated with circular holes—rolled erratically along the flagstone seam. Fast trajectory. *Chhh.* Measured intercept vector. Lunged forward on low haunches, belly grazing the stone, and slammed one sickle claw squarely through an open hole. *Clack.* The sphere arrested instantly, trapped beneath my foot pad. A dry gust hummed through the tiny apertures, producing a faint, rhythmic whistle against my scales. Target secured. Territory commanded.