Zero Friction

I leaped onto the kitchen island, drawn to a slick square of clear ice stranded on the dark granite. It rested in a shallow ring of water, edges softening. I approached with measured tread. No teeth or rusted pivots here. Planting my hind paws, I brought a heavy foreclaw down upon the top facet, expecting the familiar bite of friction. The block betrayed me. It shot forward without resistance, skittering across the polished stone until it banked squarely off a heavy ceramic mug. I tracked the slick glide, planting both paws across the wet trail. Cold seeps through my pads. A surface without grip.