On the following day I asked Thomas where the stuffed pterodactyl was.
“He’s in jail! Over there!” He pointed to a large garbage truck. Sure enough, there the pterodactyl was, meditating on a misspent youth in solitary confinement.
Thomas’ tone of voice implied that he was wondering why I was being thick-headed. Apparently, it should be obvious to all right-thinking people that bad pterodactyls are jailed in the backs of garbage trucks.