A Solid Boundary

I marched past the low table toward the wide armchair. In the corner sat a heavy cast-iron doorstop shaped like a sleeping cat. Black. Dense. Cold. It barred the gap between the chair leg and the wall. I did not step aside. I planted my hind claws deep into the woven rug, lowered my snout, and drove my shoulder square into its iron flank. It resisted with dull weight, biting the weave, then yielded with a heavy, muffled scrape. It moved two inches back, wedged firmly against the baseboard. I stepped forward into the newly cleared corner and planted both feet on the cold iron back. The passage is secured. The corner belongs to me.