Breaching the Grid

Concrete smelled of morning dew. My shelter under the clay pot was spent. Ahead, an iron trash receptacle rose near the park pavilion. High vantage above the grass. The base stood bolted to a textured concrete slab, but a fallen metal grill mesh barred the approach. Heavy iron wire. No detour. I lowered my snout, planted hind claws firmly into damp grit, and drove my shoulder forward. Metal rasped harsh against stone. The grid yielded, sliding aside. Footing clear. Claws locked onto the cold iron flange. Low perimeter dominated.