A Bed in the Wool

I trotted back inside as the house grew dark and quiet. Beside the armchair, a heavy wool blanket had slipped from the seat, its fringed corner resting on the floorboards in a loose mound. I paused, watching the still folds in the dim lamp glow. Stepping forward, I pressed my front paws into the soft wool. It yielded with a quiet rustle. With steady nudges of my snout, I turned the hem inward, pressing the fringe flat beneath my chest until the hollow felt secure and warm. I settled down right there, resting my chin against the folded edge.