The Stiff Bristles

I padded back inside as evening settled across the neighborhood, heading toward the low bench by the front door. Resting on the wooden plank was a sturdy brush with a neat crest of dark bristles. I paused, watching the warm hall light gleam along its smooth beechwood back. Taking a careful step closer, I lowered my front paw onto the textured bristles. Instead of sinking softly like a blanket, they pressed back with a firm, springy prickle against my toes. I eased my weight onto them once more, pleased by the brisk, quiet resistance before sitting down to rest in the entryway.