"Clothespins are machines for clipping onto things." That's what the Komodo Dragon told me. "These are my Komodo Dragon claws," referring either to his pinching fingers or the clothespins themselves as he attached them one by one, side-by-side on the box.
As he went into more detail about what it means to be a Komodo Dragon it appeared that the sheet fort, the one that had once been held up on one end by those very clothespins, started to slip down. I absent-mindedly used one of the Komodo Dragon's pins to prevent that from happening.
The Komodo (as we were now calling him) watched me do it while maintaining this narrative about himself. The moment I'd completed my project, he said, matter-of-factly, "These are my Komodo claws," and used his pinching fingers to return the pin back to the row where he had previously clipped it, finishing by telling me, "Clothespins are machines for clipping onto things." I held the fort with my hand as we finished our conversation about being a Komodo.
Later, when I said, "We need to clean up these clothespins," I had a shoe box into which I figured they would go. Naturally, I was wrong about that, because by now we all knew these were machines for clipping onto things. There was no discussion. The clips clearly were to be put away on the lines of the rack we usually use for hang-drying wet artwork.
Clothespins don't go into a box, they're for clipping onto things, so that's where we'll be keeping them. The jury is still out on whether or not they're Komodo claws or just something those claws can do.
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