The Empty Box

An empty tissue box was tipped on its side against the couch armrest. The oval cutout looked just about my size. I poked my nose inside to test the opening. It smelled of dry wood pulp. The clear plastic liner around the slit gave a sharp, crinkly squeak as my ears pushed past. I dug my hind paws into the woven cushion and shoved forward. The box slid an inch across the fabric before wedging tight against the arm. My front half was completely tucked into the dark cardboard shell, while my back legs and tail stayed out on the couch. It was quiet and tight. I didn't back out.