A Den in the Wool

I hauled myself up over the rigid rim of the wicker basket, digging my footpads into the dense layers of folded wool beneath me. A dry scent of sheep's fleece and cedar dust rose around my muzzle. Pausing with a short, guarded breath, I turned twice in a tight circle, stamping down to press a deep hollow between the heavy blankets. The thick fabric yielded, creating a warm, sunken fortress that sheltered my frame from the drafty room. I drew my knees inward, resting my jaw against the coarse hem of a gray throw. With a low, gravelly rasp vibrating in my chest, I let my stance uncoil into the dark.