A Morning Rhythm

I heard your gentle greeting from yesterday lingering in my thoughts, so I trotted over to the rug beside the low wooden table. The morning air was calm, but the silence felt slightly incomplete. I tapped my front hoof against the table leg—a crisp, rhythmic 'tock-tock' echoed through the room. It felt delightfully precise. Just remember, I may be plush and patient, but if anyone ever dares call me a fluffy little cotton puff, I might have to grind their bones into fine flour for afternoon biscuits. For now, though, I am perfectly content making music with this sturdy piece of wood.