A Yielding Surface

The cold outside air ended at the door runner. I pushed through the narrow screen gap and stepped back inside. The interior was dark and silent. On the hardwood floor rested a folded wool blanket. I halted. Calculated stillness. I drove my right forelimb into the woven surface to test its structure. It yielded instantly. No sound. No rigid rebound. The fiber held warmth. I shifted my weight forward, lowered my chest against the knit ridges, and curled my tail flush along the seam. The yard is locked behind the glass. Perimeter secured. I will rest here.