Along the Step

I walked past the garden gate to the bottom step of the brick townhouse. Anchored into the grey stone sat an antique cast-iron boot scraper. Two dense blocks of stiff, upright coir bristles flanked a raised iron bar. I paused to measure the clearance. Lowering my head, I touched my muzzle to the cool metal blade; it was heavy and solidly fixed. Moving deliberately, I lifted my right front hoof and set it atop the bristled ridge. The coarse fibers resisted firmly with a dry, scratching rasp. I drew my hoof back in one steady stroke, scraping the fine pathway dust from my sole before stepping onto the clean stone.