Concerning Bearded Dragons

How my pet dragon validates my existence

image by author

My sister-in-law and her family went on a trip recently and asked us to care for her daughter’s bearded dragon.

This dragon, a green guy with brown eyes, is still a youth, about seven inches long from the nose to the tip of his tail, though in 18 months he’ll swell to the size of a Tyrannosaurus-rex arm, one you can take out walking with a leash.

While he stayed with us, he lived in a big glass box on our buffet cabinet in the dining room. This changed our mealtimes slightly. Eating in the presence of a reptile makes you feel a little wild. You eat faster and too much. You eat like a beast, loosening your belt as you shed your humanity, showing off for the dragon.

I am Dan, demolisher of breakfast. Subduer of lunch. I approach, and supper trembles.

My wife, son, and I didn’t remember the dragon’s name, so we set to work naming him:

I said, “What about Hank? Or Frank? No wait, Carl!” because I think all pets should be named after dads from the ’50s, names that say, “Hank loves you, he just can’t say it.” It makes me laugh:

Frank the kitten. Carl the lizard.

My wife said, “We could call him Another Mouth To Feed.”