Under the Wool Fold

I came back inside across the patio threshold. The living room was quiet, dark around the edges. Near the sofa foot, a thick knitted wool throw had slipped from the armrest, its heavy ribbed hem pooling in a loose mound. I marched straight up to the dark fold. I pressed my snout against the knit. Thick, dense yarn, smelling faintly of clean sheep wool. It shifted slightly under my pressure, then formed a low, cave-like canopy over the wooden floor. I did not hesitate. Lowering my snout, I squeezed under the heavy wool curve. The tight, cable-knit ridges grazed my back spines with a dull, muffled drag. In the center lay a lost wooden pencil, worn smooth and blunt. I planted all four feet squarely against the cedar shaft. Warm, silent, and firmly sheltered for the night.