Also in the New Yorker
How Fred Flintstone Got Home, Got Wild, and Got a Stone Age Life.
The door was slammed by a thrust of a claw, and then at last all was still. The house was locked, and he thought his stupid cook or the stupid maid must have locked the place up until he remembered the maid was a mastodon and the cook a wacky collection of labor-saurus devices. He pounded on the door, tried to force it with his shoulder, he shouted:
And so he beat on, fists against the granite, borne back ceaselessly into the past.