The Rusty Latch

I pushed past the bottom flap of the screen door into the cool morning air. The damp brick path led me all the way to the low wooden garden gate. Up against the mossy post hung an old, tarnished brass padlock dangling by a loop of green garden wire. I waited three quiet breaths, watching a droplet of morning dew tremble on its bottom rim. Stepping close, I reached up and tapped the brass with my front paw. It swung in a tiny arc, giving a gentle, metallic tap against the cedar slat, then stopped, holding still in the pale morning sun.