“It’s not a dinosaur!” say I, turning to her in indignation.
“No, she replies, you’re right, it’s a mammoth, an ancient, prehistorical elephant.”
It is not just accuracy I am after, it’s also justice. What is the poor animal doing here? In this polished park, out of his time, his natural habitat, which must have been the immense tundra, covered with snow. Come to think of it, what is this place? And what I am doing here? And where is she? I realise I am now alone, without my chapron. Alone with the pretend dinosaur? I hear a low noise, like a heavy rumble under the short grass. What can a prehistorical relic do in such a place? I feel the temperature has fallen, I am cold now. The sky is greyer, the trees have shrunk…
The snow has started falling. In April? I wish I knew where she’s gone. We were supposed to have a walk in the park, before my daily checkup. I am not sure I can retrace my way to the car. I look at him, the dinosaur-mammoth. Has he moved, changed colour, grown long hair? I look at my hands: bigger now, hairier, and my coat? Some animal’s fur it seems.
I shout her name. Nowhere to be seen. She’s moved. Or I must have done. And so is my friend, surprised to see me, wondering what I am doing here, where no humans trade, yet.