Claiming the Golden Globe

The kitchen was silent, but a brilliant mound of treasure called from the high counter. I stomped up the wooden barstool and vaulted onto the cool quartz slab. Inside an open wire basket rested a massive yellow citrus, gleaming like a polished sun. I braced my sturdy hind claws, reared back, and drove my horned snout straight against its pitted rind. The heavy sphere wobbled and rolled out of the wire cage with a hollow thud. A sharp, invigorating burst of citrus oils sprayed into the air. I planted one heavy foot firmly on the prize. Another vault secured.