A Husband’s Memory Is Selectively Dino-Shaped

I Have Witnesses

I don’t pay attention to the news anymore unless I click on something by accident.
Even then, I ninja-swipe like a wasp hovering near my face, because—much like the mail—nothing good ever comes from it. It’s either a bill, bad news, or a letter from a Jehovah’s Witness begging me to please reconsider my eternal salvation.

But every once in a while, a word or phrase hooks me.

I clicked on something random in my “for you” page—the place where my phone thinks it has me figured out. The headline said: “Museum Going Out of Business. Life-Sized Dinosaurs for Sale.”

Now, I’m not a dinosaur person. I don’t remember ever Googling anything close to that. And yet suddenly this felt personal. Why would this be recommended to me? How much does a life-sized dinosaur even cost? Are we talking movie quality or a sad six-foot foam thing?

The descriptions had me wheezing. One said the dinos offered “movement for realistic entertainment and child petting.” The listings were on Facebook Marketplace, right next to someone selling a stained sofa described as “pet-free” and their particle-board bookshelf labeled “probably real wood.”

And once I started reading, I couldn’t stop. Then a photo of a massive T-rex appeared. Not six feet. Thirty-nine feet of pure ridiculousness.
Price: under three grand.
Fine print: buyer responsible for shipping.

That sent me down a whole trail of questions:
How does someone move a 39-foot T-rex under bridges?
Where do you park it?
Who makes a collar that size so I can put a giant dog tag on him labeled “Burt Reynolds”?

Naturally, after processing the idea for a solid thirty seconds, I called my best friend.

“How big is your husband’s flatbed,” I asked, “and how willing would you be to talk him into a drive to New Jersey?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Why? Do you need to bury somebody?”

“Not exactly. I need to convince Rob that buying a 39-foot T-rex is a great idea.”

She snorted. “Why would you want one?”

“How badly do you want to help me make the neighbors and the Amazon delivery driver lose their minds?”

“That is hilarious.”

“Think about it,” I said. “We could put a fence around him, give him a giant tennis ball, and add one of those church signs that says, ‘I identify as a German Shepherd.’ For Halloween, we could add fake blood and drape ourselves over his tiny arms. Christmas? Giant Santa hat. Easter? Big dinosaur eggs. The possibilities are endless.”

“Did Rob say yes?”

“I haven’t called him yet.”

“I’m in,” she said immediately.

A few minutes later my son wandered in to find me on my bed, giggling like I’d lost it, scrolling Etsy for vintage Christmas lights and over-sized pastel-dyed eggs.

“What are you laughing at?” he asked.

“How would you like a T-rex for a brother?”

“WHAT!?”

So I explained the entire saga, and he was instantly on board.

“We have to convince Dad,” he said. “This is epic.”

So the two of us approached Rob together.

“WHY would you want that?” he asked. “And what would you even do with it during the day?”

“I’d raise my teacup and say, ‘Good morning, Burt.’”

“And how would we even get it home?”

“Obviously, Tasha would help.”

“We are not getting a 39-foot T-rex.”

Our joy died right there.

Then—one month later—the same listing popped up on his feed. He called me, sounding thrilled.

“Hey! You’ll probably say no, but I want a life-sized dinosaur.”

My son and I stared at the phone with rage in our souls.

“Burt already sold,” I said.

“Mom literally asked you for that a month ago,” my son added. “She wanted the 39-footer.”

“I don’t remember that,” Rob said. “Anyway, I want the flying one.”

“You’re right,” I told him. “We’re not buying it.”