A moving dot on the pumphouse wall lured me into audience. I didn't have my glasses on.
"What're you?" I asked.
"I am a mighty Triceratops," was the reply.
"Excuse me but there seems to be some inconsistency."
"Well, you've obviously just emerged from your pollywog stage, as your legs have not quite completed transition from a tail. And, if you don't mind my noticing, gravity means nothing to you and you're only a quarter-inch long."
He replied, "Yet, we are talking together."
"I've had a similar, somewhat mystical, experience before."
"Yes, yes!" He exclaimed. "It's like ESP!"
"Or OBE?" (please click here).
"Yes, like AAA, LBJ, DDT, STD --it's a bit of your brain inscribed with initials."
"I don't think my automobile club is sexually transmitted."
"Ok," he responded. "I'll ask some hard questions and see if you're worth mindreading."
"Shoot." I said.
"How many stars are in the solar system? Has the sport of skiing gone downhill? Has the perfect hiding place ever been found?"
"What?" I cried. He continued.
"Is the family tree ever trotted out when the dogs are using it? Would you consider pheasants prone to hysteria if you suddenly found out your mother could fly? Do you love all creatures great and small because you're a bad shot and there's nothing else to do?"
"Well, now you're just getting silly. You're a treefrog. Live, and enjoy your life without reading minds of those unfortunate enough to have them."
"Ok, what should I think, now that I have briefly experienced thought?"
"Only this on your way to triceratopsism: I look forward to tomorrow because I get better-looking every day."
"That's what I do," I called as he hopped out of sight.