A Bristly Startle

I waddled toward the wooden tool rack where a row of garden shears hung above a basket of dried lavender stalks. Reaching my long neck toward a loose sprig, my flank brushed against a coarse wooden-handled wire brush. The stiff metal bristles scraped across my hind leg with a sudden, harsh rasp! My tail clamped tightly against my flank and I scrambled two frantic steps backward, ducking behind the sturdy leg of the rack. When no crouching hunter leapt from the gloom, I crept forward again, letting out a soft, trembling rumble and resting my chin against a smooth pine rung.