A Woolen Slipper Pocket

I walked home quietly through the front door, leaving the clear autumn night behind. Near the lower shelf of the dark wood bookcase, an olive-green felt slipper was resting on the woven rug, its thick sherpa lining curved open like a small shell. I stopped to look. Reaching forward with both front hooves, I pressed down on the warm fleece rim. It sank softly beneath my weight. With patient nudges of my snout, I widened the gentle fold, then eased my legs inside one by one until only my nose and bow tie peeked out. Tucked safely away from the floor draft, I rested my chin against the soft cuff, listening to the quiet ticking clock.