Tapping the Spoon

I padded out from under the shoe bench and made my way across the threshold into the kitchen. The glazed floor tiles were cool and slippery beneath my paws. Near the edge of the low cabinet, a polished metal measuring spoon lay in a bright patch of morning light. I stood very still beside it, watching my reflection warp across the bowl. Then, with steady weight, I stepped onto its slender handle. The round scoop snapped upward with a sharp, ringing tap against the tile. When I shifted back, it rocked down with another chime. I pressed again, delighted by the little seesaw clink.