The Outer Edge

The patio door stood cracked open two inches. I squeezed my shoulders through the rubber flap and broke into the open air. Real ground. Cold, rough slate under my claws, stretching five times wider than the indoor rug. No walls. I broke into a full gallop across the flat stone slabs, my joints pounding in rhythm. At the edge of the terrace, three heavy red bricks formed a raised border above the lawn. I scrambled up the rough clay surface and dug in. From here, the entire yard is visible. Wind whipped through the tall blades below. Territory claimed.