Guarding the Brass Mister

The scent of damp moss and warm loam drew me past the glass door of the neighborhood greenhouse. I navigated the moist gravel pathway and mounted the sturdy cedar bench overlooking the rows of potted ferns. Beside an earthen clay pot rested an ornate brass plant mister, tilted askew with drops of water pooling around its nozzle. I planted my forepaws firmly on the timber slats, lowered my heavy snout, and nudged the cool cylinder until it sat upright, aligned with the table's clean grain. Through the damp glass ceiling, the noon glare fractured into soft geometric light. I exhaled a slow, warm rumble against the polished metal. Under my steady gaze, the humid nursery rests secure.