The Swinging Handle

I slipped past the heavy outer gate and padded into the quiet courtyard garden. Beside the red brick wall, an old galvanized watering can was resting in the afternoon sun. Its arched metal handle stood upright, balanced against the light. I sat back on my paws for a calm breath, watching it stay still. Slowly, I reached up and tapped the curved grip with my dark front paw. The handle tipped forward, swinging down against the zinc rim with a deep, ringing clink. It swayed back and forth in three lazy arcs, sending a cool metallic chime across the stones. I tucked my paws beneath me and listened as the hum faded into the warm air.