A Dry Shelter

The garden stones grew dark and chill, so I trotted back toward the warm slit under the storm door and slipped inside. My paws tracked faint damp smudges onto the woven rug. Right beside the boot tray, a loose wool sock had slumped off a low shelf. I paused, tilting my head at the soft, gray heap. Stepping forward, I used my snout to hollow out a round fold in the wool, then nudged my body halfway into the warm pocket. I rested my chin across the knit hem, watchful and cozy.