The Problem with Dragons

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. They didn’t exist, not here or anywhere else in the world. We didn’t have unicorns or zephyrs or griffins running around, either. We only had normal animals, like dogs and cats and horses and rabbits, the kind of animals that made sense, that you knew how to deal with, how to control. But that’s all changed now.

Most everyone believes these new “Fantasy Pets”, as they’ve been so blatantly marketed, are what this world needs. They’re a godsend for the economy: fantasy pet stores have popped up all over the place, not to mention all the merchandise that goes with 'em. They’ve got positive environmental uses: unicorn manure, for example, is an amazing fertilizer without all the negative polluting problems associated with normal animal crap. And they’re perfect pets, as my tweenage daughter, Ivery, will argue. She’s non-stopped begged me for a pocket-sized dragon that’ll fit in her backpack ever since her best friend got one, and she’ll ramble on and on about all their positive qualities if you let her.

I’ll never let her have a dragon, though. Or a unicorn or any other fantasy pet. In my opinion, all these abnormal creatures are dangerous invasive species, every one of 'em, and they need to go. Especially the damned dragons.

This morning is a prime example of why dragons are an absolute menace to the normal order of things. The sun is shining, and the sky is all nice and blue with a refreshing spring breeze twirling through it, and I was in a good mood because I managed to herd Ivery into the car so I could get her to school, and me to work, on time for once. But right as I’m about to climb in the driver’s side, a dragon soars overhead. One of those huge ones, not the teacup-sized dragon Ivery’s been clamoring for. And what does it do? It decides to take a dump as it glides over my newly fixed, freshly-painted car. And dragon poop isn’t nice and splatty like bird poop. Oh no. The falling pellets slice into the car’s hood like machine guns bullets, missing my head by millimeters.

“Son of a bitch!” I yell, bounding over to glare at my once-again damaged hood.

Ivery sticks her impertinent head out of the rolled down passenger window and says, “Language, Mom!”

“Don’t tell me to mind my language. Joe Mellon’s damned dragon has gotten loose again, and look at the car.”

Ivery leans forward in her seat until her head rests against the front window. “It doesn’t look so bad from here. Just a couple of scratches.”

I beat the pellets off the car hood with my purse. They roll off—they’re like solid black pebbles. They don’t even leave a stain on the purse, but they sure left some dents in the hood. I throw the purse into Ivery’s lap, plunk into the driver’s seat, and slam my door shut.

“Damn dragons. This is why you can’t have one, Ivery.”

“Because Mr. Mellon’s dragon got loose and pooped on the car? That’s not fair. All my friends have pet dragons, why can’t I?”

“Because it’s friggin’ unnatural, that’s why. And having a pet with wings is just asking for trouble.”

“A parakeet has wings,” Ivery argues.

“Yeah, and a shitting parakeet wouldn’t cause hundreds of dollars damage to my car. It’d just leave an ugly white smudge.”

Ivery giggles at this, then says, “But dragons have to have wings. They gotta engineer ’em that way, otherwise they won’t look like real dragons.”

I gun the engine, and we roll away from the house. “That’s the whole point, Ivery. Real dragons don’t exist. They’ve never existed. And they shouldn’t exist now. How about a puppy instead? A puppy is cuter than a dragon.”

Damn, why did I say that? I don’t want to get stuck taking care of a dog, either.

“But dragons are smart. And loyal.”

Now that I’ve started down this path, I stick to it. “So are dogs.”

Ivery huffs out a sigh. “Mom, what do you have against fantasy pets?”

We pull up to that stupid intersection where the car hood got clocked by a loose unicorn just last week—it galloped right down the middle of the road and bashed my hood in with its hooves when it tried to jump over the car. I peer both ways, now leery of rampaging beasts. “Ivery, all I can say is that these animals are unnatural and something is bound to go horribly wrong because they’ve been introduced, just you wait. Something a hell of a lot worse than a damaged car hood.”

Ivery takes one final stab. “But dragons are awesome pets, Mom. My best friend Maisy never has a problem with hers.”

I check the rearview mirror before pulling out into the intersection. “Not yet she hasn’t.”

“She says they pretty much take care of themselves. Like cats. All you gotta do is change the litter in the dragon box and remember to feed ‘em, and you’re good to go.”

She thinks she’s softening me, but she isn’t. Not by a longshot. My response (in a very sarcastic voice) is, “Well, that’s just fantastic.”

Ivery, who has been exposed to my sarcasm all her life but still doesn’t understand it, says excitedly, “I know, right? And they’re so cute and sweet—way better than any ol’ dog. And loyal. They love you to death and always want to stick by you, and they don’t chew like dogs even though they have teeth, and they don’t rip furniture to shreds like cats even though they have claws. A dragon is the absolute perfect pet, Mom. You can’t mess up—they even come with instructions.”

“Sorry Ivery, not convinced.”

Ivery sighs—an overdone, loud, teenagery sigh, and spouts out an incredibly teenagery answer: “You never let me have anything I want.”

And on that note, we pull up to the school, and she tumbles out of the car and slams her door shut and stomps off. I sigh and drive my poor, abused vehicle down Main Street and out into the Valley. How can I get it across to her that I will never, ever allow a dragon into our house? It has nothing to do with them being, or not being, good pets. It has everything to do with something else, something that I can’t explain to her. At least, not without jeopardizing my job.

I pull the car into the parking lot of Mel’s Garage and honk. Mel comes out, wipes his sweaty face with a greasy towel, causing a large, black smudge to mar his fat pink cheeks, stares at my hood, and says, “What the hell, Rosie? Didn’t I just fix that?”

“You did. Joe’s dragon got loose. Shitted on it.”

“Didja yell at him?”

I can’t help cracking a smile. “At Joe or the dragon?”

He laughs. “Joe. The dragon won’t care.”

“Not yet. But trust me, I will.”

Mel rubs his chin, increasing the length of the black smudge. “You really want me to fix it? Seems to me there’s not much point if, as soon as you drive outta here, you’re just gonna mess it up again.”

“I didn’t mess it up, the dragon did. Can you just give me a ballpark quote? And quickly, I’ve got a meeting at nine.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” he grumbles, but he does scrutinize the hood, punch in a couple of numbers, and text me a quote. I glance at my phone and frown.

“Can you shave a couple hundred dollars off that…you know, for old time’s sake?”

He laughs. “If you wanted to get good deals on car repair, you should’ve married me when I asked. Then you could have all this for free. Anyway, I know for a fact you can afford it, with that secretive high-paying job of yours.”

“Which I’m gonna be late for.” I’d give him a hug but he’s too greasy, so I get back in the car and start the engine. “Don’t forget, Ivery is staying with you for a couple of days. School gets out at three. Make sure you’re there to pick her up.”

“When have I ever not been on time? You’re awfully busy nowadays. Where is that company of yours sending you now?”

I shrug. “It’s just some boring old conference. I’ll be back by Friday. See ya, Mel.”

I wave and drive off. Mel’s a good guy. I never would’ve married him, even after I found out I was pregnant with Ivery and he felt obliged to make the offer. You just don’t commit yourself to a lifetime of marriage because of a freak one-night stand. He’s a good, reliable dad, but I can’t imagine spending my life in the same house with him. Can’t stand the smell of gasoline and oil, for one. Gives me a splitting headache.

A headache, more from nerves than the gasoline odor clinging to Mel, begins now as I drive past the Valley’s picturesque farms, some now with unicorns grazing in the fields. You can’t put a unicorn in a field with a horse, they discovered. Unicorns aren’t at all aggressive, but they use their horns as a greeting with one another. Their hides are thicker than fortress walls so they don’t mind the horn-butting, but after several unintentionally gored horses had to be euthanized, farms will now only keep one or the other. The unicorns are very careful with their horns around people. But sometimes they forget that horses are just horses and not unicorns, and they ram em in the sides to say hello.

Some people have complained about this. They want a newly engineered unicorn, one that won’t display this kind of behavior. But that’s not at all how it works, no matter what the public thinks.

The Valley ends, and the road climbs into a deep green forest. I gun the car up the steep hill because I’m really pushing the clock now. My head begins to thump. I shouldn’t have stopped at Mel’s, that could’ve waited, but I was so pissed at the hood getting damaged again. Now, I might be late. And today is not the day I should’ve risked coming in late.

About half a mile up, I take a sharp left onto a gravel road and stop the car in front of a high security fence. I peer into an eye scanner, the gate opens, I drive in and careen the car into a parking space.

Woods completely surround the parking lot, which now has a smattering of vehicles in it, and I tumble out of my car and run to catch up with Bob Russell, who’s striding quickly through the lot. “Oh, good,” I gasp. “I’m not the only one late.”

“No, but we’d better hurry,” Bob says. “The Colonel’ll have our hides if we hold up the meeting.”

We skitter up a rocky path and head straight towards a cliff half obscured by ferns and moss and bushes. Bob turns to stare at a tree that really isn’t a tree. The tree scans his eye, and a section of the stone cliff slides open. We scoot in and run down a brightly lit corridor, our shoes clomping against the stone floor.

“How’s your daughter?” Bob asks we race down the hall.

My laugh comes out wheezy; I’m running out of breath. “Oh, fine. Except she keeps whining about…wanting a…woof…pet dragon. Can you imagine? Me actually buying one of those…whew!—things for my own daughter?”

Bob chuckles. “Your kid would be heartbroken if she knew her mother was the scourge of the fantasy pet industry.”

“It shouldn’t…be an industry, that’s the point.”

We skid to a stop in front of Conference Room Number Two. I open the door and wheeze into the cramped room. The rest of the group is huddled around a conference table, arguing animatedly, but they stop talking and turn their eyes to us as we enter.

Colonel Mendoza gives a curt nod to two empty chairs, and I fall into mine, trying to breathe normally and silently willing my thumping head to quiet down. The Colonel’s in full uniform—he’s even got his medals on, by God—and he stands in his usual ramrod way and turns to the video screen lining one wall. “General,” he says, after shooting Bob and me a significant glare, “the floor is—finally—yours.”

Major General Adamson, a bit pudgy, a bit unkempt, looking like he’d maybe just finished eating brunch at the Officer’s club and could use a good belch, gazes through the vid and blankets us with a benign smile. He’s much less testy than the Colonel, maybe because he’s skeptical of our entire proposal.

He leans back in his chair. “Well, folks, about this idea of yours. This…elimination of all fantasy creatures. Not sure I’m for it, I must say. They’ve been a godsend for the economy, you gotta admit.”

“But bad for the world,” I can’t help blurting.

Colonel Mendoza’s glare becomes positively nuclear in its glow, but General Adamson’s smile remains bland, unbelieving. “Well, then. Let’s hear your arguments on why. And I’m damned curious on how you propose to carry out this crazy plan.”