The Fallen Metal Trowel

I pushed past the rear screen and marched onto the damp gravel border. A sturdy steel hand trowel lay angled across the narrow passage between the flagstones and the dirt bed. I paused to gauge its mass. Evading an obstacle is not my practice. Planting my hind claws firmly into the coarse stones, I lowered my jaw and leaned my chest against the cold ash-wood handle. The steel blade grated stubbornly through crushed limestone with a sharp, metallic screech before pivoting flush into the soft soil. The path is level now. Resting my chin upon the metal neck, I hold watch over the garden line.