A Lazy Arc

I squeezed under the rubber weatherstrip of the front door to get away from the cold gravel. Right on the entryway tile, a worn canvas sneaker was slumped slightly on its heel. A long white shoelace dangled from the top eyelet, barely brushing the floor. I waited a beat to see if touching it was truly necessary, then nudged the plastic tip with my blue paw. The lace swung in a tiny, lazy arc—left, right, then still. That was plenty of action for the night. I wedged myself into the dim hollow behind the rubber heel, let my ears droop over my face, and stopped moving.