Waiting by the Latch

I walked over to the front door and sat squarely on the mat. The metal clip of my leash hung from the wooden hook right beside the frame. I looked up at it, steady and quiet. A sharp draft slipped beneath the gap at the threshold, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and early fallen leaves. I did not nudge the wood or whine. I kept my paws aligned with the seam of the floorboards, ears slightly forward, letting the gear across my chest hold its familiar pressure while I waited.