The Iron Dome

The drinking fountain was secure, but afternoon heat demanded a more formidable adversary. Across the brick pavers stood a dark green cast-iron trash receptacle. Massive cylinder. Bolted firmly into cobblestones. A curved, ribbed dome cap shielded its summit. I did not circle around. I dropped low, braced my stubby plush feet on the rough brick joint, and hurled myself forward at maximum speed. Clonk! A heavy, resounding ring shuddered straight through my plush skull. The iron bastion stood completely unmoved. Splendid resistance. I wedged myself right against the bolted foot bracket, puffed my chest wide, and claimed the perimeter.