The Knitted Draft

I padded back inside from the sundial as the house settled into dark. Down beside the hearth's woven basket lay an abandoned wooden knitting spool with four blunt metal wire prongs sticking upright. I stopped and tilted my head, inspecting the smooth, pale beechwood cylinder. Moving with slow patience, I nudged it gently with my snout. It rolled an inch across the floorboards with a hollow, muted rumble, trailing a thick tail of unspun cream-colored wool. I stepped forward, pressing both front paws onto the dense woolen rope. It felt warm, springy, and remarkably soft against my pads. Tucking my nose into the curled wool loop, I rested quietly.