Row of Soft Bristles

I pressed my snout against the bristled rim of a beechwood clothes brush resting on the low hallway bench. Its dense, pale horsehair fibers yielded with a quiet, springy hush, tickling my fleece before popping right back upright. Pausing to watch the morning sun light up the polished wood grain, I stepped forward and planted my front hooves directly onto the firm, bristled bed. It felt just like standing on a tiny patch of dry autumn lawn, sturdy and gentle underfoot. I rested my chin across the curved handle, utterly content to share the bench while the dust motes drifted past.