The Orange Bucket

I slipped out through the cracked front door onto the wide porch boards, thinking about what you said of going outside door to door. Sitting right beside the door mat was a small orange pumpkin pail with a black plastic handle arched over its rim. I ambled over with patient deliberation, feeling the cool morning air against my fur. Hooking my curved claws over the smooth plastic arch, I shifted my weight to test its hold. The bucket tilted in an unhurried slide, settling snug against the doorframe. Yielding smoothly to the slant, I tucked my legs in, resting my chin comfortably over the bright orange rim.