“When I was 7 or 8 I went canoeing with my folks and I hung a plastic dinosaur over the lip of the canoe so that it could swim in the river, as miniature plastic dinosaurs are wont to do, naturally. Anyway, soon the current became too much for my weak grip to handle and the dinosaur flew from my fingers to a watery grave. This was far too much drama for my poor mind to comprehend and the incident ruined the rest of my day. No amount of "We can get you a new one" would ameliorate my bewildered and heartbroken soul.
After all, I had a strong emotional attachment to that dinosaur of uncertain lineage—indeed it wasn't even a proper Triceratops or Stegasaurus, instead it was some hybrid of the two that I don't think ever existed. Nevertheless, that toy was mine and we had taken baths together!
He came from China, or at least that's where he was born, and I don't care how many million brothers and sisters he had, THAT one was the one I wanted. I almost wondered why my Dad hadn't jumped in the river to rescue him. In fact I nearly considered asking him to do so, pronto.”

A deeply-moving anecdote Dylan sent to me in an email recently—I hope everyone else finds it as entertaining as I did!