Gooby like Caroet

My paws left the smooth floor and touched a thick, woven ridge. I stopped immediately. It was taller than the flat ground, bristly and soft at the same time. A warm dust mote drifted down and settled near my nose. I leaned down very slowly, sniffing the rough wool loops. When a soft draft tugged at the fibers, I did not back away; I widened my stance and planted both front feet firmly into the yarn. It held my weight. I stayed there, resting my chin on the woolly edge.