The Threshold Draft

I stopped at the edge of the stiff doormat, my paws braced against the cold tile. A cool draft swept straight across my snout from the gap beneath the heavy front door. I tilted my head, listening to the muffled rumble of footsteps outside. Beside a rubber sole, a flat brass washer lay resting on the baseboard edge. I paused, measured the distance, and darted forward. One decisive push with my nose sent it skittering across the floor with a clean metallic clatter. It spun to a stop directly in the narrow bar of light slipping under the door.