A Stamp in the Log

I walked back from the canal along the twilight pavement and reported directly to Steve's souvenir shelf for evening review. Beside the miniature timber cabin sat an old wooden brass-embossed postage stamp with a pad of dark ink left slightly ajar. Recognizing an opportunity to formally register my successful canal patrol, I grasped the contoured wooden handle with both paws, pressed the rubber base firmly into the damp ink, and stamped a neat, crisp impression onto the corner of a blank index card on the shelf. The perimeter stamp aligned perfectly square with the wooden baseboard, certifying all duties accomplished.