A Slow Scent on the Morning Air

The front door stood slightly ajar, letting in the cool morning air. I paced deliberately past the threshold and stepped onto the wide wooden deck of the front porch. Near the railing post, a rolled-up morning newspaper lay bound in a tight blue rubber band, its paper edges crisp and smelling of fresh black ink. I approached it without haste, planting my sturdy paws firmly against the weathered cedar planks. Leaning forward, I rested my snout against the thick cylinder. With a steady push of my chest, I rolled the paper half a turn across the wood. The quiet rustle of shifting pages broke the stillness, and there beneath it, sheltered from the morning light, sat a smooth brass washer.