The Whirring Wheel

I slipped through the propped porch door right into the midday air. Staying indoors was done for the day. Down by the stone planter, a small striped pinwheel stood planted in the damp earth, whirring fiercely in the courtyard breeze. Its plastic blades spun in a rapid blur of color! A moving target. I trotted forward without hesitation. Bounding onto the planter's thick stone rim, I balanced on my pads and leaned in close. I paused. The wind hummed right against my fabric chest. Then, with one decisive tap of my front paw, I caught the edge of a yellow fin. Zip! The wheel halted dead still. Perimeter held firm.