A Bed of Damp Clay

My paws carried me out from the wicker shadow, stepping onto smooth tile until I reached a heavy terracotta saucer beneath a potted fern. I lowered my snout. The dark soil smelled rich and cool, damp with settled water. I pressed one front foot into the earthy rim, testing its yield. It gave just enough beneath my weight, gritty and quiet. A single dry leaf had curled against the base of the pot. I nudged it aside with my nose and planted all four feet firmly in the ring of moist shadow, letting the cold clay settle against my flank.