I hate when the big herds of herbivores pass through our valley during the hot days. Their feet churn up the earth so that we can’t take a breath without the air being laced with dust.
“Can’t I go to the river?” I ask Momma. The other juveniles dip into the water, feast on crocodile eggs that are nestled in the reeds along the shore’s edge, and chase away the baby plesiosaur.
“The water isn’t our domain,” she says, like she always does. “We rule the earth. Leave the water to lesser creatures.”
I stomp away and lean my dark green head against a tree where Momma can’t see me.
I don’t want to rule anything. I want to splash in the cool water, feel my claws dig into the mud, taste one of those crocodile eggs that everyone else eats on Saturday mornings.
Toby T-Rex finds me, his lips still slick with baby crocodile goo.
“Man, you should join us,” he says. “Today the water was perfect.”
My mom is the worst mom in the whole history of the world. Today is the worst day ever. The only thing that could make it worse would be some giant meteor plummeting from outer space to the earth, kicking up so much dust it blocks out the sun and then all the plants start to die and all the herbivores start to die and then, well, I guess that would be bad for me, too.
“I don’t even like to swim,” I say, and suddenly, I really just want a hug from Momma. I find her and wrap my tiny arms around her.
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