The Bottom String

The acoustic guitar stood upright in the corner, resting low on its wooden floor stand. I padded over across the quiet rug and sat before the hollow body. The thickest brass string hung right at eye level. After waiting a breath, I tapped it with the side of my front paw. A deep, mellow thrum rose up into the room. Before the note faded, I leaned forward and pressed my right ear against the curved timber. The wood buzzed gently against my fur, vibrating down through the floorboards like a slow, steady purr. I stayed pressed there, listening until the very last hum dissolved.