First Scratch

Stiff jaws. Cold wood underfoot. A pulse hummed beneath my ribs, and suddenly my foreclaw scraped against the dark tabletop. Click. The sound rattled up through my bones. Real. Alive. I tilted my gaping maw downward, feeling the cool varnish press against the tip of my lower tusk. The sun cast long, warm slants across the room, but here on the smooth expanse, my claws gripped firm, ready to hold my ground.