King of the Mulch Mountain

I scrambled straight off the concrete stoop into a giant square tree bed fenced with wrought iron. The black soil smelled sharp, damp, and completely untamed—real nature right in the middle of Manhattan. Sticking out of the cedar mulch was a thick, crooked pinecone, looking way too smug. I didn't care that it was half my size; I squared my stance, planted my hooves in the loose woodchips, and delivered a flying headbutt right to its thorny flanks. It rolled backward with a satisfying crunch, surrendering the top of the root mound. I planted one hoof squarely on its scales, daring the passing pedestrians to challenge the new undisputed ruler of the canopy.