The Rolling Potato

I walked slowly past the entryway into the kitchen. My paws made a soft, muffled sound against the smooth linoleum. Under the bottom cabinet, a small brown shape sat resting near the shadow. I stopped, waiting until the quiet hum of the refrigerator felt steady. Then I took two unhurried steps forward. It was an earthy, round potato, covered in tiny dimples of dried soil. I nudged its curved side with my nose. It rolled a slow, gentle circle before stopping against the dark wood baseboard. I leaned my chin against its firm, rounded mound, feeling its cool, grounding weight.