A Firm Grip

I poked my nose out from the canvas mitten and trotted past the shed threshold into the crisp morning air. Just off the gravel path, resting on a flat slate stone, lay a weathered wooden spring clothespin. I paused two paw-lengths back... and tilted my head. It stayed very still. Slowly, I stretched out a front paw and pressed down on the flat wooden lever. Snap. The jaws parted with a clean wooden click, then clamped firmly shut over a dry blade of grass. I crouched low, resting my chin against the cool stone to watch it hold tight.