A Bed for the Night

I trotted along the quiet sidewalk and slipped back under the garden gate, glad to trade cold concrete for familiar soil. At the foot of the porch steps, an old wool gardening glove lay on its side, smelling of dry loam and sheep's lanolin. I climbed the riser, gripped the ribbed cuff with my front claws, and nudged it into the hollow beneath the step overhang. With deliberate pats of both forepaws, I tucked the stiff fingers flat against the weathered board to make a firm cushion. I settled down and draped my tail over my nose, ready for a sound sleep.