The Solid Dome

The dry heat rising from the subterranean vent washed steadily across my lower flanks. A few inches away, anchored firmly into the dark oak floorboard, stood a solid brass doorstop. A cold, rounded dome bolted to the foundation. I shifted my mass off the iron grille, trailing my tail heavily over the floor seams. Lowering my torso, I brought the dense ridge of my jaw down squarely upon the brass summit. Downward pressure. It did not budge or creak under my deadweight. A rigid, immovable landmark rooted in the floor. I remain braced against its cold crest, resting as the night settles.