Leonard was a purple dinosaur with a very big problem. Not the kind of big problem you can fix with a broom or a snack or a quick sparkly slime wipedown. No, this was a catastrophe of the highest order.

His beloved bookshelf, the one he had proudly assembled three years ago using a combination of determination and mild guesswork, had collapsed overnight under the weight of far too many comic books and jars of glittery purple slime. It had buckled at 3:12 in the morning with a dramatic cruuuunch, startling Leonard out of a dream where he was winning a dance battle against a troupe of flamingos.

Now, in the morning light, it was a tragic sight. Comic books were scattered like colorful feathers across the floor. Several slime jars had rolled under the couch, leaving faint sparkly trails behind them. One had somehow made it on top of the lampshade and was slowly dripping in a very ominous way. Leonard stared at the mess with a solemn expression, hands on hips.

“Bookshelf,” he declared, “you tried your best.”

He knelt down and gathered a handful of comics, cradling them gently. “Fear not. You will have a new home.”

But where could a dinosaur find a bookshelf worthy of his expanding collection and his questionably large slime inventory? Leonard knew the answer instantly. There was only one place in the entire world that could help him in his hour of need.

IKEA.

He wrapped himself in his brightest striped scarf purple, orange, and neon green, because subtlety was not Leonard’s way and set off on his journey. The walk to IKEA was long, but Leonard enjoyed it. Birds chirped, people waved, and children pointed excitedly because it wasn’t every day one saw a purple dinosaur strutting confidently down the sidewalk.

When he reached the giant blue and yellow building, the automatic doors slid open with a triumphant whoosh. The warm, comforting smell of meatballs, lingonberry sauce, and cinnamon rolls drifted out like a welcoming hug. Leonard closed his eyes and sighed. He was home.

He grabbed a cart carefully, because carts were not designed for claws and began his adventure through the labyrinthine wonderland.

First came the living room displays. Leonard immediately got distracted. He tested sofas to check whether they were comfortable for a tail, curling his tail around like a cat and then wiggling to evaluate tailwigglecompatibility. The squishiest ones caused him to giggle uncontrollably.

In one room setup, he found a collection of tiny throw pillows arranged neatly. Leonard tested all of them, stacking them on his back like a precarious rainbow tower while humming a song about pillows being “puffy squares of joy.” A nearby couple whispered, unsure if they should intervene. Leonard waved at them cheerfully, sending two pillows falling to the floor.

Next, he wandered through the tiny model apartments, his favorite part of IKEA, aside from the food and the inexplicable plants that were somehow all named FJÄLKSNORK or PLÖMP. In one model kitchen he pretended to make spaghetti, stirring an imaginary pot and sprinkling pretend spices with flourish. In another, he admired how the chairs matched the curtains and wondered briefly if he should become an interior designer. “Leonard’s Lairs,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Stylish hideouts for the modern dinosaur.”

He paused in the bedroom section to try out a bed. He lay down, curled up like a giant lavender croissant, and declared, “This one is nap approved.” He meant to get up immediately after, but the mattress was extremely comfy, so he remained there for a solid seven minutes contemplating existence and whether he should purchase a rug shaped like a cloud.

Eventually after two wrong turns, one right turn, and one moment of accidentally joining a family shopping for lamps Leonard reached the bookshelf section.

There it was.

The perfect shelf.

Tall. Sturdy. Radiating confidence.

Its name was BÖRFNÖRK.

Leonard repeated the name softly at first. “Börfnörk.” Then louder: “BÖRFNÖRK” The echo carried dramatically down the aisle, causing a sales associate to glance over before deciding it was better not to investigate.

Leonard inspected the boxes carefully. He read every measurement, every little diagram, and even tapped the cardboard with his knuckles like a carpenter appraising wood. This was it. This was destiny.

He loaded three BÖRFNÖRK boxes onto his cart, though it took some tail maneuvering and a heroic amount of balancing. For good measure, he threw in a pack of tealight candles, two lamps shaped like mushrooms, and a green rug that looked like a frog. It did not match anything he owned, which made him love it even more.

At the checkout he proudly placed everything on the conveyor belt, humming the BÖRFNÖRK theme song he had invented on the spot. The cashier, a tired looking teenager, blinked. “Are… you assembling this by yourself”

Leonard puffed out his chest. “I am prepared,” he declared, holding up two allen keys like sacred relics.

Back home, assembly began. Or at least, something resembling assembly.

The instructions contained no words, only tiny illustrations of smiling humans confidently inserting screws and tapping boards together with gentle encouragement. Leonard studied them intensely. He tried tilting the paper. He tried squinting. He tried turning it upside down and sideways and then upside down again. These methods did not help in the slightest.

Still, Leonard persevered.

He laid out all the boards in what he assumed was the correct configuration, though it somewhat resembled a confused wooden octopus. He inserted the screws. He twisted. He balanced. At one point he may have attached one board backwards. At one additional point he definitely did attach one board upside down.

There was a suspicious cracking sound at one moment, but Leonard told himself it was probably the wood “expressing its enthusiasm.”

An hour later and after three water breaks, one stretch break, and six brief moments of contemplating whether he had made a terrible mistake the BÖRFNÖRK stood proudly in his living room.

Well… it stood slightly proudly. It leaned a little to the left. It also wobbled if you breathed on it too hard. But Leonard loved it anyway.

He filled it with his comic books, organizing them by color, favorite character, and whether the story contained explosions. He placed his jars of sparkly purple slime carefully along the second shelf, wiping off any drips that tried to make a break for freedom. On the top shelf he placed a tiny potted plant he had purchased months ago, an aloof, spiky little creature that had somehow survived purely on vibes. It added just the right touch of style.

Stepping back, Leonard admired his work. He tilted his head one way, then the other. The shelf tilted too, as if greeting him politely.

“This,” Leonard declared in his deepest, most dramatic voice, “is art.”

He flopped onto his couch, which he had recently tested for tail comfort, and sighed with deep satisfaction. His comics were safe. His slime jars were displayed with pride. His living room looked at least 12 percent more sophisticated.

But most importantly, something inside Leonard had awakened.

A new calling.

A new passion.

A reason to visit IKEA again. And again. And again.

Within the next week, Leonard visited IKEA twice more. Once because he needed storage boxes for his crafting supplies, and once because he missed the meatballs. On the second trip he ended up buying a lamp shaped like a goose, which honked when you tapped it. He didn’t need it, but it made him laugh so hard he nearly fell into a display of bath mats.

Eventually the employees came to recognize him. They would wave when they saw him entering, his scarf fluttering dramatically. One employee even saved a sample cinnamon bun f