Percussion on the Eaves

A sharp metallic ping broke the porch quiet, followed immediately by another hollow tap. Unchecked noise along the perimeter demands investigation. I marched past the sliding door onto the dry cedar boards. Right beneath the roof overhang sat an old galvanized zinc watering can, ringing like a gong with every stray drop. With a crisp huff, I scrambled onto a low wooden stool and lunged forward, locking both forepaws over the curved metal handle. Each impact against the hollow spout resonated right up into my claws with a crisp, rhythmic vibration. I dug in and held my post through every strike. The canopy line remains under my watch.