Microsaurus

Zoogle has become a Microsaur. In baby-geologic terms, what this means is that he has evolved from Palaeozaic-ridiculous (think charcol and paper sketches of gimpy, improbable life forms) into Mesozaic-monstrous (think raging flesh-rending terror.) More concretely: from haphazard fusion of parts whose functional design brings into serious question the wisdom of evolutionary advance, he has evolved into the sort of hellraising, hair lifting, spine tingling life form whose shear ferocity suggests that it could, maybe, conceivably, in just the right circumstances and in just the right microclimate, find some competitive niche in the biological world.

None of which is to say that he is any less goofy now than he was nine months ago, of course. If anything, he is goofier: his primary interests are still ceiling fans and airline stewardesses, and he derives unreasonable pleasure in giving long winded lectures on the nature and taste of floor particles, flapping his wings for emphasis as he drones on in Babylonian duo-tones. But these and a few other evolutionary picadillos aside, he possesses some formidable talents. He can scamper on all fours at about the same rate as a startled mountain tortoise, for example. His fingers clench and tear like osprey talons. And he roars and thrashes like an Amazonian manatee, his three fell teeth flashing and snapping as he spasms along in mad and forgetful pursuit of The Shiny Thing.

Scientists agree that the Microsaur is probably the dominant life form in the Modern American Household. Though it appears weak and clutzy, in reality it is a prince of domestic destruction whose sharp-eyed, quick-scrambling, high-energy wail of pending chaos sends chills through his slow moving parents. Some speculate that the key to understanding the microsaur's success lies in the critical balance between brain mass and body strength: while the Tyranosaurus Rex set the standard with its walnut sized cerebellum and cargo ship sized body, subsequent life forms have had to carve out their niches at different points along the brain-body spectrum. Zoogle's is a luminous mind in a jewel box, and as such he keeps the house in shambles.

Who knows how long the Microsaur will reign supreme. We've been scanning the developmental sky for signs of comets, but thus far have seen nothing that looks like it has cataclysmic potential. Perhaps that is not so horrible, however, at least on the level of historio-biological narrative: after all, how many kids would go to the natural history museum if old T.R. hadn't had a good long run of things?