by Chad Gayle
If your child’s a dragon, there’s no need to explain your tattered clothes or the smoke rings round your eyes. We know how your eyebrows got singed, and we know you spent half an hour or more circling the parking lot because you really didn’t want to walk through those double doors. You didn’t want to take your place among us, to admit by your very presence that you’re afraid of your young dragon, nor do you want to acknowledge that the love you’ve always felt for the magical creature living in your midst is fraught, these days, with dread and disappointment. Most of all, you’d rather not divulge the secret that you’ve kept hidden from family members, friends, and coworkers for so long, the awful truth about the life you’ve been living, the fact that there have been moments, far too many now for you to count, when you’ve wanted to kick your dragon to the curb, to send them packing and to do your best, afterwards, to forget you ever loved them at all.
We know all about these feelings because our children are dragons too. We’ve felt your shame, your self-deprecating guilt, and your nauseating fear. Like you, we’ve all been burned so badly by our dragons that we thought our wounds would never heal.
And we all have our stories; mine’s probably not that much different from yours. Along with my partner, I pampered my dragon with love and affection, and together we tried to make sure she felt wanted, safe, and secure. As our dragon grew older, we told her how important it was to talk about her feelings, to learn to understand not only why she was happy but why she might be sad, and we did the best we could to help her figure out the place she wanted to occupy in this world. We tried to be there for our dragon; we did everything we thought we were supposed to do, which, as it turned out, was not enough.
What we didn’t see, or what we weren’t prepared to acknowledge, I should say, was the magnitude of the anxiety that beset our dragon as she matured. The first real sign of trouble came when we realized that our dragon had stopped attending flight school, which, as you are no doubt aware, puts a dragon at risk of becoming permanently dependent upon humans. At about the same time that we made this discovery, our dragon started smoking, and she smoked incessantly, filling our house with sulfurous fumes that kept me and my partner coughing for hours on end. Maybe you’re a member of the camp that believes dragons can quit smoking after they start. I happen to think that they can’t because I’ve spent the last two years administering anti-smoking punishments and potions and poultices to our dragon that never gave us more than a few weeks’ worth of clean air. But that’s my dragon — maybe yours is different.
Anyway, the smoking was the least of our worries. As her anxiety intensified, our dragon tore up the furniture and picked at her scales with her claws until her body was covered with sores. And she became bolder and more aggressive with me and my partner, thumping her tail menacingly against the walls or the floor as soon as we brought up her mounting absences from flight school.
Sure, it’s adorable when your dragon’s knee high and she whips your ankle with that little tail of hers, but it’s not quite the same when her head reaches the ceiling and a mere flick of that tail — which is as thick as a tree trunk — can break your femur or every one of your ribs. I don’t know if you’ve reached the point in your relationship with your young dragon where lines have been crossed and bones have been bent, but I’m sure you’ve had glimmers of how much worse it can get in the darkest of your dreams, nightmares in which you grapple with the questions I grappled with after I came home from the hospital that first time. Questions like, what if she hurts me again? What if she hurts someone else? I know these bones will mend, but how can the damage done to my heart ever be repaired?
I would love to say we worked out all of our problems on our own, that our dragon quit smoking, returned to flight school, and took a solemn oath never to strike me or my partner again, but the time for myth-making is over, my friends. As awful as it makes us feel, my partner and I had to admit that our dragon is better off living somewhere else for the time being, sheltered in a closed preserve with dragons her age where she can be monitored and privately tutored, and so we are in the process of finding a program where she can get the care that she needs without endangering herself — or us — any longer. Which isn’t to say that I still don’t find myself grasping at straws, searching desperately for reasons to keep her with us for at least a few more months, but I’ve accepted the recommendations of the wizard we consulted, and I’m committed to following through with this treatment plan because I know that we have to think not only of the health and safety of our dragon but of our own health and safety as well.
I’m sure you’re asking yourself, as you try to get comfortable in your seat, how any of this helps you, in your situation, which is different in various degrees from mine. The answer is that although our situations may be different, the problems that we face with our dragons are very much the same. That’s why we all meet here in this great cathedral every other Monday night — to tell our dragon stories and to lean on each other during times of crisis and conflict. Because it isn’t easy dealing with the problems of a troubled young dragon, as you already know. I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to do it alone.
We don’t pretend to have all the answers, but we do try to support each other however we can. We come to this sacred place from townships all over this kingdom because we refuse to give up on our young dragons, because we believe in the possibility of a better future for all dragons, everywhere. We’re dragon people, in other words, and we’re proud of it.
Well, as usual, I’ve stood behind this podium a lot longer than I’m supposed to, but that’s because I’m so happy to see all of these new faces here today. Now I want to welcome you all and tell you how much I look forward to hearing your dragon tales and to walking the road to recovery with you. We really like to think of ourselves as one big family, you know — but, be that as it may, I’m getting that hand signal from my partner again; yep, I can put a sock in it and yield the floor.
One very, very last thing before I open it up to the new parents and give you all a break by sitting down: if your child is a gnome, my apologies — you want the green room at the end of the hall.
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About the Author
Chad Gayle is a writer and photographer based in NYC. His speculative fiction has appeared in The Colored Lens and MetaStellar Magazine; his commercial photography has been featured in The New York Times and The Huffington Post. Husband to the world’s most talented veterinarian, he has witnessed countless stories of furry recovery and redemption that have given him a reason to believe in a brighter future and a better tomorrow for animals everywhere (humans included). He is also the proud parent of two amazing children and three rescue cats.
Such an amazing story from an amazing young man!! Analogies throughout for many of us “otherworldly” creatures/parents.