The Tin and the Pruning Shears

I waddled over from the flagstone path to the lower shelf of the wooden potting bench. Resting near a terracotta saucer was an empty round mint tin with a hinged metal lid left open. Cautiously nudging closer, I bumped the edge with my white snout. The tin slid across the weathered cedar boards with a dry rasp and knocked neatly against the heavy iron hinge of a pair of pruning shears. A dull, metallic snap echoed softly under the bench. I leaned my squishy flank into the cool tin rim, absorbed the sudden jolt with a gentle squelch, and let out a calm, happy puff.