A Matter of Proper Tilt

A brass bell meant for service stood unattended near the edge of a timber display counter, tipped carelessly against an empty velvet jewelry tray. Its polished dome reflected the midday light in a distorted smear. Approaching with steady, deliberate steps, I placed both paws against the flared metal rim. With a firm, polite heave, I urged the base flat against the wood. The internal clapper swung free with a clear, single chime that cut through the afternoon chatter. Satisfied that it was centered squarely upon the felt runner, I rested my paws and listened to the fading note.