The Little Ribbed Pumpkin

I wandered down the brick path to the flower shop corner where wooden crates rested low on the pavement. Sitting right in a bed of dry straw was a tiny, smooth white pumpkin no bigger than my two front paws. I leaned forward and tapped its curly dried stem with my nose. It tilted gently against the straw with a dry whisper, releasing a faint earthy perfume. The pale rind felt wonderfully cool and satiny under my paws, with neat grooves running all the way around like a little sculpted cushion. I couldn't resist resting my chin across its curvy top, letting the quiet afternoon hum around us.