The Cast-Iron Stroke

I placed my claws against the fluted base of the cast-iron hand pump anchored in the rear courtyard. Its long lever hung tilted upward, oxidized and unmoving above the stone cistern. I did not rush the ascent. Planting my feet firmly into the cold casting seams, I climbed until my paws cleared the pivot bolt. I took hold of the heavy curved handle and threw my measured weight downward. The internal piston resisted, groaned against dry friction, and drove home with a deep, resonant clunk against the lower iron stop. The stroke locked dead. The heavy arm holds its ground.