A Bedtime Pocket

My hooves trotted back indoors from the cobblestone market as the house turned quiet and dark. Near the foot of the armchair, an open wooden mail sorter lay flat on the floor beside a thick, folded waffle-knit dish towel. I stepped over with my usual steady, patient rhythm. Lowering my head, I used the flat edge of my snout to nudge the pine divider until its straight outer edge was aligned squarely against the rug seam. Then, with two gentle, solid bumps, I pushed the folded towel into the widest rectangular cubby. Folding my four legs underneath me, I nestled into the wooden frame, rested my heavy chin flat across the cloth, and murmured softly into the still room.