Chester grabbed Mr. Pips and headed toward the front door. He’d had just enough of Mommy’s sighing and the baby’s squawking. He wanted things to be like they used to be. He wanted someone to be interested in his stories again. His wonderful, magical stories full of fierce and beautiful creatures and brilliantly brave heroes (who, admittedly, always looked and acted a bit like Chester himself). Now Chester sighed. This new baby had ruined everything. Mr. Pips gazed at Chester sympathetically, and he gave the old, battered stuffed bunny a squeeze.
“Never you mind, Mr. Pips!” Chester said, forcing a bit of cheer into his voice. “We’ll go out and make our own great adventure.”
Chester drug Mr. Pips through the mud that spread out gooily beyond the front mat. Mr. Pips was always such a sport about getting dirty. Chester pushed his glasses up on his nose (they were always sliding down. Such a bother) and looked around for the most perfect place for imagination and magic. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be such a place in his front yard. Chester and Mr. Pips did, however, finally settle on place that lay between the shrubbery and the house. It was familiar and shady. Besides, Chester almost always closed his eyes when he was creating an epic adventure. It helped him see into his imagination better, like a telescope into his mind.
Chester lay down on the damp ground and propped Mr. Pips up on his chest. “Now, Mr. Pips,” he began, “did I ever tell you about the time I rode a Sparkle-Horned-Rainbow-Spotted-Cinder-Dragon through a storm of stars? That was an epic adventure, for sure…”