Rex

Meet Rex, the Mini Dinosaur: Welcoming an Alligator

When I was eight years old, my stepdad brought home an alligator.

Yes—a real, live alligator.

He arrived in a cardboard box with air holes, hissing softly and smelling like pond water and adventure. My stepdad had just returned from a trip to Florida and wanted something we could bond over.

My mom wasn’t thrilled. She made that clear with tight lips and crossed arms.

I named him Rex, short for Tyrannosaurus Rex, because of his toothy grin. He was barely a foot long, with rough skin the color of river stones and yellow marble eyes that never seemed to blink.

My stepdad helped me set up a medium-sized aquarium in my bedroom. We added warm water, a basking rock, and a clip-on heat lamp. He told me Rex needed “very specific care.”

Every day, I fed Rex bits of fish, dusted with calcium powder, and carefully monitored the water temperature. Before school, I’d tap the glass and whisper good morning. Rex didn’t answer, but he always looked.

Sunbathing on the Porch: A Wild Companion’s Routine

On weekends, I’d carry Rex outside to the flagstone patio. We had an old roasting pan, which we covered with a screen and filled with a bit of water. Rex would stretch out, mouth half-open, basking like a miniature dinosaur in the sun.

At school, a teacher once asked if we had a permit for him. When I brought it up, my stepdad just shrugged: “It’s fine.” I overheard my mom mutter something about it being “illegal,” but she never said it directly to me.

The Bite That Changed Everything

One sunny afternoon, I was on the porch feeding Rex a thawed piece of chicken with tongs. Maybe I got too close—or maybe he was faster than I thought—but his jaws snapped shut on my finger.

It barely broke the skin, but I yelped in pain. My mom came running, her face pale. She cleaned and bandaged the bite, then whispered something fierce to my dad behind closed doors.

Later that afternoon, I went to a friend’s house to trade baseball cards. When I came back, the roasting pan was empty on the sidewalk.

I asked where Rex was.

Mom said she didn't know but thought someone had stolen him.

I was devastated.

Posters, Questions, and a Gecko: Searching for Rex

For weeks, I put up Lost Alligator posters and asked every neighbor if they’d seen him. No one had.

Eventually, my stepdad brought home a gecko to replace Rex. It was fine—friendly, manageable. But it wasn’t an alligator. It didn’t hiss. It didn’t look like a tiny dragon.

The Truth Comes Out: Animal Control Steps In

Years later, when I was a teenager, my mom sat me down and finally told me the truth.

Animal Control had taken Rex.

She had called them. She said she was afraid for my safety and hated breaking my heart. She thought I was finally old enough to handle the truth.

I was a little angry at first. But my love for her always had a way of softening things.

Not Meant to Be a Pet: Reflections on Rex

Looking back, I know she was right.

Rex was never meant to live in a bedroom aquarium or in a roasting pan on a patio. He wasn’t a pet. He was a wild animal. Alligators grow much larger than a foot, and they can live for decades.

Still, I sometimes wonder where Rex ended up. Maybe he’s in a zoo or a sanctuary somewhere, stretched out under the sun.

And maybe—just maybe—he remembers me too.

Thank you for reading! If this story resonated with you, we invite you to visit jspetshop for thoughtfully selected terrariums, food, and care guides to support responsible reptile care.