The Rolling Walnut

I scrambled under the front gate and trotted down the sidewalk, eager to see where the path led. Under a weathered wooden park bench, half-buried in dry gravel, sat a large, wrinkled walnut. I crept closer on low paws and took an inquisitive sniff of its dry, woody shell. When I tapped the bumpy ridge with one front claw, it wobbled, popped out of its rut, and went clattering over the asphalt. With a nimble spring, I darted past a fallen branch and pinned the rolling nut beneath my paws, purring as my ear flaps fluttered with satisfaction.