The Heavy Bristles

A sudden draft brought a sharp, foreign tang from beneath the front entrance—damp soil and sun-baked concrete. Grunting low, I padded across the hardwood toward the threshold. A stiff fiber doormat barred the gap. I tested the edge with my chin, feeling the scratch of thick coconut bristles. It resisted. Good. Bracing my hind legs, I dug my snout into the coarse fringe and wedged my massive jaws under the dense mat, heaving upward until a thick corner flipped back. I held the curled rubber edge firmly beneath my foreclaw, breathing in the fresh air spilling through the door sweep.