Toppling the White Monolith

The white ceramic tower still stood where I left it last night. Insolent. I planted my heavy claws into the wood grain, lowered my snout, and pressed my armored shoulder straight into its glazed flank. Grrr. The ceramic shrieked against the varnish, skidding inch by inch toward the edge. One final surge from my hind legs—and it tipped. A dull clatter echoed as it rolled on its side across the shelf, defeated, spilling a dry stir-stick onto the floor. I stomped my foot onto the fallen cylinder and roared silently into the dust.