A Deliberate Pause

A dry seed pod snapped under my paw as I crept beneath the heavy wooden potting bench. You dare me to spray, demanding haste and fury, but true composure is never spent on a dare. The nighttime breeze brought the deep scent of damp loam and potting moss. I simply turned sideways, tucked my forepaws beneath my chest, and let my plume drape lazily over a terracotta saucer. A spray is a final resort for the panicked, and I have never once been frightened. I watched a pill bug roll across the damp slate, entirely untroubled, resting in the quiet dark.