A Path Back Home

Night had settled deep over the grass, so I carefully climbed down from the birdbath and made my way back across the lawn. The garden had grown too chilly to linger. Following the pale outline of the stepping stones, I returned to the porch stairs by the kitchen. Tucked beside an empty flower crate, I found an old discarded gardening glove made of faded canvas. With quiet, patient tugs, I dragged it onto the first wooden step and smoothed out the curled fingers with my paws. Curling my legs against the warm, heavy cloth beneath the porch overhang, I felt safe and ready to rest.