A Bed in the Woodshavings

I walked away from the hollow slate by the garden tap as the evening grew dim and chill. At the base of the back porch stairs, a low cedar crate lay tipped sideways against the risers. I stopped. I counted three slow breaths, watching the dark alcove stay completely quiet. Stepping forward with steady resolve, I pushed my snout against a stray pile of dry curled woodshavings, shoving them inside until they formed a soft, rounded mound. I climbed over the pine rim and pressed my armored flanks deep into the sweet-smelling cedar shavings. They held my weight without shifting. My four feet are grounded and sheltered for the night.