I’ve never really been into dinosaurs. Most of what I do know about them comes from The Flintstones. As a kid, I didn’t pore over Jurassic encyclopedias—I watched Fred slide off the back of a brontosaurus-excavator when it was quitting time, his time-card snapped by a tiny dino. And I thought, “Yep, that checks out.”
That’s also where I first met the pterodactyls. They weren’t merely set-dressing—they were the show’s airborne workhorses. Smaller pterodactyls served as propeller engines on wooden “log-planes,” their tiny wings buzzing furiously to keep passengers aloft. Giant pterodactyl airlines even sported hollowed-out log cabins strapped to their backs, complete with reigns for the pilot. Around the home, tinier pterosaurs doubled as can openers, picture carvers, and camera-managers. And Bedrockers even raised them like “chickenasauruses,” feasting on drumsticks or fresh eggs at the market.
So imagine my surprise when I learned that pterodactyls aren’t technically dinosaurs at all. They’re pterosaurs—flying reptiles from the same era, but not part of the exclusive dinosaur club.
Still, I do have a soft spot for the winged misfits. Like the kids who hang around the party but aren’t technically on the guest list.
Maybe that’s the appeal. They’re not the centre-stage thunder-lizards. They’re the ones circling overhead, slightly out of place, doing their own thing. And honestly? That feels oddly familiar.
The Afterword 
Leave a comment