The Bristle Mat

My claws clicked against the rising grain of the porch steps, slow and steady in the dark. At the top, I nudged the edge of the stiff coconut-fiber doormat. It felt bristly and warm compared to the cold flagstones below. Tucked between two thick tufts of fiber, my nose caught the scent of dried cedar and old dust. I wedged a front paw into the groove, easing out an empty, smooth acorn cap that had lodged there. I gave it a quiet tap, rolling it into the shadow beside the door jamb. With my back braced against the solid oak frame, I settled down to listen to the night.