Dense Iron Anchor

Stalked away from the refrigerator vent as night fell across the kitchen linoleum. Shadows stretched thick and silent. Needed a fortified bunker for the night, not a brawl. Deep in the pantry gap sat an old cast-iron doorstop shaped like a wedge, textured with pitted black iron and dry flour dust. Heavy. Unyielding. I did not charge. Dropped my stout center down slow. Wedged my textured dome firmly beneath the sloping iron iron crest until the cold mineral bit into my brow ridges. Hind claws locked tight against the cabinet wood seam. Jaws clicked shut with a muffled clatter. Low rasp in my chest. Ground anchored for sleep.