The Secret Life of a Miniature Dragon

Draconis gobbled the dry, hard kibble from his bowl until his forked tongue flicked against the reflective bottom. He stared at his own image: the proud brow ridges protruding over the compact, multicolored eyes; the slits for nostrils opening and closing slowly in rhythm with his breathing; and his sharp fangs dripping with saliva after his not-so-savory meal. By all accounts, Draconis was a vicious beast—except for his size.

No bigger than a Great Dane, he had been labeled a “miniature” dragon since birth and kicked out of the nest at the hatching as a runt. If it hadn’t been for his human caretakers, he might not have survived this long.

But that was when he was a dragonet.

He was a dragon now.

Draconis turned from his bowl and took in his surroundings. Human knick-knacks, as far as the eye could see. It was far too cluttered for a dragon, even one as small as Draconis, to comfortably move about. Beside his bowl stood a table where his caretakers ate but he could never even set his foreclaws on without fear of a scolding. He tried sitting in the chairs that surrounded it to amuse them, and sometimes it worked, but it often earned him a smack on the snout and a stern “Down!”

The next room over was no better. Boxes had been stacked high to the ceiling over the past couple weeks, and the humans had not told Draconis why. He could hardly even reach his scratching post anymore or the couch that he was forbidden to sleep on (but did anyway, often with his head in one of the human’s laps). The humans seemed so frustrated lately, talking about “what they would do with the big one when they leave” and “where could Draconis possibly go”. Draconis never understood it. Wherever the humans went, he would go.

At least, that’s what he had always told himself.

A series of roars shook the house, drawing Draconis’s attention to the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. Up in the sky, a horde of five dragons flew in perfect formation far above the humans’ home. They looked almost like birds, their silhouettes flew so high, but Draconis knew what they truly were. He could feel it deep within his bones.

Draconis lifted his left foreclaw and pressed it gently against the glass door. A sad, low rumble emitted from his throat. He imagined what it must be like to fly so high, to feel the wind through his wingsails. He imagined catching live prey in mid-air, chopping down on it with his sharpened fangs and letting the fresh warm blood drip down his throat. He imagined being among his own kind, accepted, for just one day.

Draconis knew that the humans would miss him. The little ones would miss riding on his back in the yard as he ran. The big ones would miss bathing and oiling his scales; they always told him that pampering him was one of their greatest joys in life. All of them would miss cuddling with him while watching a movie in the dark late at night. He would miss it, too. But not as much as he longed for what he saw outside the glass door.

Draconis twitched his wings. His foreclaw fell to the ground as his eyes landed on the long tears in his wingsails. The humans had said that those tears were for his own good, so that he wouldn’t go and get himself in trouble. All he remembered was being put to sleep and waking up with the tears—and the inability to fly.

Draconis let his head droop as he turned away from the sliding glass door. He slunk away between the boxes and squeezed himself around his scratching post, wrapping himself around it tightly. At least he had his humans.