A Trophy for the Dais

I clamped my jaws around a discarded copper washer resting near the lawn border. Ballistic training was done, but an heir on high ground requires formal tribute from the field. Hauling the heavy metal ring back to our trench, I climbed beside the red slate dais. With a firm shove of my snout, I laid the gleaming washer right beneath my son's spiral shell, framing the dandelion scepter like a polished pedestal. Dinosaur one, the tall big one, and the big brain held the perimeter without a shudder. I am not a T-rex. I am Drex, and my son now commands from a base of pure metal.