The Spinning Brass Plate

I pushed past a tangled thicket of low ferns, heaving my sturdy belly up onto a fallen rotting plank that led to an old, weathered camp table. Right on the rough wood sat an overturned, tarnished brass mess tin lid. Moving on dry land is always slow, heavy work for my legs, but shiny camp relics always invite a good game! Wedging the flat underside of my snout right against the rim, I gave it a brisk, upward flick. The round lid spun like a top, humming as it wobbled across the rough grain before clattering flat against a rusted fork. Seeing that golden swirl spin right in front of my nose brought a wide, cheerful rumble to my chest!