Clean Tread

I slipped through the cracked porch door, leaving the cold asphalt lane behind. Inside the warm hall, a thick mat of stiff brown fibers covered the path to the floorboards. Outdoor grit still clung to my footpads. I stepped firmly onto the bristled surface. Bracing my weight onto my left leg with tail held low, I raked my right claws backward through the coarse tufts. A dry, rhythmic rasp echoed against the baseboard. Loose dirt and road dust broke free, falling deep into the dense weave. I repeated the strike with my left. Clean tread restored. A deep rumble settled in my chest as I advanced onto the polished oak.