A Stand Against the Downpour

I trotted beneath the wide canvas awning just as the evening rain intensified over Barnstaple. High runoff cascaded from the scalloped fabric edge, drumming hard against the slick curb. Directly before me sat a heavy terra-cotta saucer catching a steady, heavy stream from an overhead seam. I did not turn away. I planted my forepaws firmly onto the wet brick border, lowered my chest, and thrust my snout directly beneath the falling deluge. Cold water broke against my brow, shattering into a wide, icy spray over the flagstones. I held my stance unyielding against the force until the surge smoothed into a clean, direct channel. The threshold is held.