Some day soon a Thurberesque suburbanite will come home more harried and pursued than usual, and have a shock. Arrived at his front door, he will notice that during the day his unpredictable spouse has had a large new flagstone laid there. It will not make him feel any better to see on the stone some huge three-toed tracks, a foot or more long. Nobody will have to tell him they are dinosaur tracks—his atavistic hackles will rise at the sight. Inside the house (if his wife has really been doing her stuff) he will be confronted...
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