Breaching the Tin Barrier

A round silver tin sat dead in my path by the low pantry cupboard. It stood half as tall as my chest, cold and solid. I did not detour. I squared my shoulders, locked my hind legs onto the smooth ceramic tile, and lowered my skull. I struck the metal face with my snout. A hollow clang echoed across the kitchen. The tin resisted at first, but friction surrendered. It rolled backward four inches, grinding against the floor before bumping into the wooden plinth. The passage to the sunlit threshold is claimed.