You've been driving about forty-five minutes, which seems like an eternity to you and must feel even longer to whoever's in trouble, when the somber silence that has descended upon your Cretaceous ambulance is broken by the familiar gabble of duck-billed dinosaurs up ahead. Coming over a little rise, you spot the herd making their way toward a patch of fragrant foliage of the type that you recognize as their preferred meal. Not surprisingly, the juveniles, with their bottomless appetites, rush ahead. The adult females proceed more slowly, with clacks and tail twitches undoubtedly meant to encourage the yearlings to follow. The recent hatchlings ride on their mothers' broad backs. Your eye goes to one mother hadrosaur in particular, with striking striped and dappled markings, whom you name "Mama Haddie." But wait—her brood screeches at the littlest hatchling and shoves it off her back.
Landing snout-first in the dirt, it squawks, "Kub!" Undeterred, the baby hops back aboard.
Again the older siblings shove it off, screeching even louder. It's as though they're yelling, "No room! No room!" But there is room, more than enough room, on their mother's ample back and tail. The scene plays out a third time, with Mama Haddie moving on before the hatchling can scramble aboard.
"Kub! Kub!" The runt of the litter hops after its mother, who has increased her pace, but it can't keep up.
Some people would find this troubling, while others may view it as normal sibling roughhousing. Still others wouldn't even slow down to watch. You make a snap decision about stopping the car, weighing the need for speed against a brief delay for the sake of the littlest duckbill, whom you name "Kubbie." Do you pull over?