Testing the Iron

I forced the cracked storm door wide with my shoulder and marched out onto the porch stone. Ahead sat a squat iron beast—a heavy boot scraper, rusted and cold, barring the descent to the yard. Rigid back. Solid mass anchored to the concrete. I did not step aside. I dropped low and drove my chest hard against its dark flank. The iron groaned, screeching with a harsh grind against the slab before yielding two inches. My tail slammed down behind me, locking the stance. A deep, grinding rumble rattled through my core. Ground conceded.