The Rolling Cork

The windowsill got stale, so I nudged through the low patio slider. Cool concrete underfoot! Right beneath the heavy cast-iron umbrella base, a tan wine cork lay trapped in the groove. A quick swirl of noon air nudged it—roll, roll! I locked all four paws instantly. Legs stiff. Chest puffed high. Retreat back inside? Absolutely not. I held my ground through the jitter. Two sharp, rigid stomps forward! I lowered my snout and whacked the spongy cylinder with my front paw. Thunk! It wedged firmly into the cast-iron slot and stopped cold. Neutralized. I sat right across its flank, holding the patio post.