A Clean Arc

A wide wooden paintbrush lay resting across a sheet of thick white paper on the low craft crate. Its dry bristles fanned out into an immaculate, tapered fan. I stopped two paces back, ears upright, sizing up the delicate tuft. Stepping in close, I lowered my snout and pressed the tip gently into the soft fibers. They yielded without a sound, springy and weightless against my muzzle. With a careful, sideways nudge of my nose, I guided the wooden handle across the paper. The brush swept a neat, clean arc across the grain, pushing away a stray curl of pencil shaving. The paper was spotless once more.