Forty-Fifth Beginning: A Very Shy Dinosaur

[A picture book that I wrote when my oldest son was three or four.  So maybe 1978?  No, I never drew any pictures for it.]

(The dinosaur in this story is never actually seen, except for the tip of his tail and his eyes peering out from under things.  He is, after all, very shy.)

(I think Mother is also not completely seen.  Maybe just her arms.)

I have a dinosaur.

He lives under my bed.

We play in my room during the day.

And he scares away any bad dreams that try to come at night.

I love my dinosaur.  But I never tell anyone about him . . .

 . . . because he’s shy.

Most of the time having a dinosaur is lots of fun.

But one day . . .

. . . my dinosaur decided to explore my closet.

He was so big that when he turned around he knocked down all of my clothes and bumped my toys off of the shelf and even tipped all of my shoes out of the pockets of the hanging shoe folder.  He made a big mess.

And Mother thought it was me.

But I didn’t tell her about my dinosaur.

Because he’s shy.

Another day my dinosaur decided to explore the kitchen.  He spilled a glass of milk on the counter, ate a dish of pudding that was supposed to be for desert, and got a bag of potato chips down from the top of the refrigerator.

And Mother thought it was me.

But I still didn’t tell her about my dinosaur.

Because he’s shy.

I didn’t tell her about my dinosaur when he knocked down two of her plants . . .

. . . or when he used the sofa cushions to make a fort . . .

. . . or when he snooped through her desk and messed up all her papers.

I almost told her one day.

One day my dinosaur decided to explore the bathroom.  Suddenly he heard someone coming.  He had to find somewhere to hide, fast!

(Dinosaur eyes peering anxiously out from under a huge mound of unrolled toilet paper.)

And Mother thought it was me.

But I didn’t tell her, even then.

Because he’s shy.

I wanted to, though.

By then, I was beginning to think that having a dinosaur live under my bed was nothing but a big pain.

He must have been sorry for getting me into trouble, though, because the next day he got up very early . . .

. . . and went outside . . .

 . . . and picked some flowers . . .

 . . . and left them at Mother’s place at the table.

(A small, grinning boy is being hugged.)

And Mother thought it was me.