A Fold on the Rug

I padded inside as the night grew quiet, trailing the faint coolness of the pond onto the wooden floor. Near the armchair, a thick knitted throw blanket had spilled down in soft mounds. I paused, watching the still wool folds for a long moment. No hurry. Leaning forward, I pressed my nose against the yarn to test its warmth, then eased my front paws into a deep crease. The weave yielded softly beneath my weight. With a low sigh, I rested my chin right in the pocket of wool and let the house hum around me.