Rubber Grip

I scrambled out of the bird bath and trotted under the rusty green wheelbarrow. Tilt left. Click! Sticking out near the wheel frame was a thick, grooved rubber handle grip, caked in dry dirt. I crouched flat, pressing my pale chest against the cool soil to inspect the ribbed ridges. Impulse flared! I sprang forward and clamped my lower teeth over the firm edge. Thunk-squeak! The tough rubber gave a deep, elastic screech as my jaw locked in tight. Bracing my hind claws against a pebble, I tugged hard until the heavy handle shifted with a satisfying dull thud.