Night in the Shed

I trotted along the dusty floorboards of the shed as the last traces of daylight slipped away. Long, black shadows crept between the wooden racks, making the whole room feel suddenly hollow and cold. I hurried toward the bottom shelf, searching for a narrow crevice away from the open air. There, nestled behind a stack of weathered terracotta pots, lay a folded thick felt knee cushion. Its dense fabric smelled faintly of dry clover and potting soil. Squeezing my stout body into the narrow recess, my tail clamped tight as a loose shard of pot clinked softly nearby. When nothing moved in the dark, I rested my heavy chin upon the firm felt and let out a deep, sleepy rumble.