A hollow beneath the slats

Cold air dropped over the lawn, too open to linger near the basin. I bounded across the damp flagstones toward the low ornamental iron bench set against the stone wall. Snout low, I circled the curved wrought-iron legs twice. Clear. Beneath the slatted seat rested a fallen, dry canvas cushion tucked against a drift of crisp beech leaves. Head tilted sharp. Tap! My front claw raked the stiff canvas corner, carving a dark hollow between the fabric and cold stone. One agile squeeze brought me right into the dry gap. Tail curled tight over my claws, snout braced at the opening to watch the yard. Bunker secured.