There’s something about having a toddler around for a few days that makes you feel young again.

My wife and I recently hosted our toddler grandson, whom she has decreed the Cutest Little Boy in the World, for a weekend. He brought along his parents to serve as his driver, valet, chef, butler, and personal attendant.

One of the first things the little guy did upon arriving at our farm was meet our dog, Bella. Bella loves everybody and was delighted to greet a person whose face is the perfect height for kissing. The boy was annoyed by her unwanted affection but soon learned that he could make it stop by just saying no.

You are certain to get your 10,000 steps per day when you follow a toddler around. It was even worse when we took him outside. His little legs immediately became an eggbeater-like blur as he darted across the lawn. This pleased Bella beyond measure; she assumed that they were having a footrace.

Hosting a toddler on the farm presents some safety issues. Not least among them is the possibility of dropping over from exhaustion after trying to keep up with the little guy.

Our grandson was fascinated when I took him to see our Jersey steers. He squealed with laughter when he reached through the fence and touched a steer’s nose, causing the startled bovine to bolt. It’s fun to host someone who is so easily and cheaply entertained.

His daddy and I would take the boy for walks on our gravel road as he straddled his trike. We didn’t go very far nor very fast because the lad had to stop every few feet to collect a dinosaur tooth or a dinosaur egg. They looked like ordinary pebbles to me, but I deferred to him because he’s the expert.

Our little paleontologist set up a station to clean his treasures at base camp. His equipment consisted of a pair of plastic cups half full of water and a plastic spoon. The tyke jabbered to me excitedly as he processed his finds. I didn’t understand a lot of what he was saying. Either I’m not well-versed in toddler-speak or the language of professional paleontologists is above my head.

The boy isn’t a fulltime toddler. You never knew from moment to moment if he would be a kitty or a puppy or Spiderman or a pirate. Very often he was a T. rex, his favorite dinosaur.

His parents, my wife and I took the tot to the Children’s Museum of South Dakota. The joint is chockablock with fascinating interactive features. A couple of pleasant hours passed while playing with an assortment of Rube Goldberg-like gadgets that involved running water, rushing air, and spinning plates decorated with sand. My wife shot me “the look” so I decided to let the boy play with some of the cool stuff too.

Numerous dinosaur fossils have been found in the Badlands of South Dakota. One of the most famous was the nearly complete skeleton of a T. rex named Sue.

Many people don’t know this, but Sue’s sister lives at the Children’s Museum of South Dakota. Or maybe it’s her brother. How does one determine the gender of a T. rex without being eaten?

The full-sized replica of Sue skulks around in the Museum’s courtyard. The animatronic animal roars menacingly, opening and closing its massive, toothy maw as its tiny watchmaker arms wave greedily.

It was obvious that this was something the tot had to see.

We slowly wended our way toward the roars. We entered a shelter, turned — and there, mere yards away, stood a mighty T. rex!

I was a bit taken aback even though I knew that the monster was mechanical. We assumed that our grandson would be frightened, but no. He spread his arms wide and exclaimed, “Come here dinosaur! Come to me!”

This proved to be false bravado. When his dad and I encouraged him to accompany us to get a closer look, he stayed in the shelter with his mom and his grandmother. There were some unintelligible whimpers, although that could have been from me due to my close proximity to the snarling tower of terror.

After all the excitement it was decided that it was time for an afternoon nap. I think our grandson got one too.

It’s astounding how quiet the house became after the boy left. There are no more random dinosaur roars, no more spontaneous singing, no more raucous toy car motor noises.

My wife and I miss the little guy. In fact, she gets teary-eyed whenever she finds a stray Cheerio between the couch cushions.

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide