Night Bunker Claimed

Cold night shadows crept over the balcony tiles—hrr-grmph. After wrestling the heavy green hose under the midday glare, my jaws were stiff and my hind claws wanted steady ground. I stalked toward the corner where a low wooden slatted plant stand cast a dense, sheltered cave. Tucked beneath the bottom rung lay a folded strip of thick grey felt padding and an empty terracotta pot lying on its side. Prime fortress. I rammed my long snout straight into the hollow belly of the clay pot, shoving forward until my shoulders braced the cool ceramic rim, and tucked my tail against the felt barrier. Night winds can howl; this bunker is secured.