The Senators were not at all impressed that I had escaped, and not at all impressed that I had returned, and still not impressed that I smelled so fresh upon my return yesterday. At least they seemed not at all impressed. Upon my fragrant return all I could manage was a slight nod from the one called Charlie.

It might be well known that I am not so fond of high places. I have, um, quite a bit of carriage to move around. Still, with the stalking blond tyrant, the high places seem the safest and shortly after my return I set out. It was quite a bit of effort. I fell a few times. That’s a fortunate thing about being a Tyrannosaurus Plushie, we are mostly immune to falling. And it would seem, after yesterday, we are reasonably resilient to spinning. As I said, I fell a few times. A surfer, I am much more agile on the water, but there is little water to be had around here. And it was only with great effort and a greater wellspring of patience that I at last managed it. On my way I sang songs about patience and about missing the surf.

Such a pleasant place, this. I am far out of the reach, I should think, of the blond tyrant. This square cavern defies all understanding. I think, perhaps, I have discovered an ancient tomb. There is that rich lavish smell, a smell for royalty from faraway places. But not only the smell. I am surrounded by all manner of jars, boxes, and cylinders that all look just about right to be sarcophagi. What wonders are inside of them? What ancient kings? What dead nobility? They have strange undecipherable markings on them. I am not such an educated Barney that I know what they say. I sing songs about ancient kings, about forgotten histories. But I am beginning to get the creepers too. I think I will have to leave this high place, this darkened tomb.

I am ever wearier of my hiding game. Perhaps I should try a disguise. Or perhaps I will try to reason with the tyrant.

Bea Murphy