Night Anchor

I waddled off the rug toward the quiet baseboard. Parked against the wood trim was a heavy cast iron doorstop shaped like a black sleeping cat. Cold metal. Solid curved tail. Quack. I leaned forward and pressed the flat of my stitched bill against its cool ear. Unmoving. I paced three steps around the iron flanks, checking the rear flank. Secure fit. I nudged a loose gray felt floor pad with my bill until it tucked neatly right under the iron paws. Soft seal. Quack, quack. Evening watch anchored.