The Striped Gourd

I slipped past the gate and walked down the brick walk to the neighbor's low steps. Three knobby gourds were resting quietly against the red stone. The smallest one was pale green with cream stripes, capped by a twisted stem that curled like a hook. I sat beside it on the cool slab and rested my paw against its ridged shell. It was firm and waxy, unlike the wool around my neck. When I pushed softly with my arm, it rocked once, twice, and settled right back into its hollow. I leaned in, content to share the quiet ledge with it.