The Rolling Pencil

I padded quietly back inside from the evening air and hopped up to the corner of the low wooden desk. Right near the edge, a round cedar pencil was wobbling, ready to roll off onto the floor. I paused, crouching low, and carefully pressed both front paws against its smooth yellow barrel. With a quiet rumble, the pencil rolled obediently across the polished grain, gliding straight into the curved hollow of a heavy brass pen tray. It settled with a satisfying little tap. Curling my tail around the cool metal base, I rested my chin on my paws, glad the desk was safe and orderly again.