Rainbow Dragons at Pride Visalia?

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Baby Dragon

Draco, in an early pic, 2011

It never fails. I should never let them look over my shoulder when I’m on the computer.

I’ve written about them before, back when they were first born. (I can’t tell them they’re hatched, for some reason they don’t like that. I think it has something to do with an inferiority complex about competing with birds. I know, it’s weird.)

Since then, I’ve kept them out of my blogs, and off my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram feeds. They’re already insufferably vain, and making them the center of attention would be unbearable. (oh, if you met them you’d think they’re charming, well behaved, and as entertaining as hell, but you don’t have to live with them!)

They’re seven years old now, and quite the handful. Over the years we’ve managed to not burn down the house or set the yard on fire. Mostly. There was that one time I had to convince the fire department that it was just the BBQ making all that smoke, while they hid on the roof, trying to look like I have a strange hobby of collecting gargoyles. Fortunately it was after dark, and they weren’t noticed. Crisis averted.

Their voices are still juvenile, though. I’m waiting for dragon puberty to hit, and for those sophisticated British accents to kick in. Still sounds like a lot of London boys sniffing helium going on around here, and sometimes it gets on one’s nerves. Good thing they’re still as cute as can be. (When they’re asleep.)

Today, I messed up, and I’m not sure how to contain the furor now unfolding in my dragon lair.

Did you see this?


Boy, they did. I was on my laptop, scrolling through Facebook, when I landed on this. I hadn’t realized Draco was behind me, snooping. (I try to keep them away from the computer as much as I can. It’s really hard to clean smoke residue off the screen after they’ve been watching Dragonheart and Eragon on endless loop.) He let out a very un-dragonly squeal, demanding to know what that was. “Nothing” wasn’t going to cut it.

Draco called the others over, and they all huddled around the computer, squeaking and squawking about it, demanding to know what it was all about.

I told them some humans love dragons (I glared at them enough to make them wonder whether I was one of them or not) and had made some buttons and other gear for the upcoming Pride Visalia. They were quite pleased. And, of course, they want to go.

How do you tell a bunch of seven year old dragons they can’t go to the festival to see the other dragons? They’ve decided it’s not just buttons and pins, and that there are going to be other dragons there. Rainbow dragons.

I’m not sure how I’m going to contain this.


Here Be Dragons

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You know, it’s bad enough when you have to deal with the bad breath, the scorching, and the mess  (what the HELL do they eat that comes out smelling THAT bad???)…  but I SPECIFICALLY told them I was NOT going to play baby sitter to a brood of the little demons.

I explained the facts of life to them, even going as far as doing research so I wouldn’t steer them wrong, but it appears it was all for naught.

Oh, they gave me some lame excuses…  you know the ones…  about how it couldn’t happen while they were flying, or how it couldn’t happen their first time over a new continent, or how they just didn’t do such things!  Yeah.  Right.

So now I’m stuck.  And it’s no fun, either.  They won’t do as I say, they fly right in front of your face buzzing around like a giant mosquito, and a burp can end up burning the house down!  The little bastards think they’re the gods of the universe, since they can fly and breathe fire!   I try to take them down a notch now and then… I’ve told them it’s only methane, and it only works because there’s a venting error going on, but they’re having none of that.

The British accents on the big ones lend them an air of solemnity and wisdom, but I’m beginning to suspect it’s an affectation rather than an inborn trait.  The little ones sound ridiculously squeaky, and it’s a hoot to listen to them try to sound dignified and wise…  that’s just not going to work.  Especially when they start calling each other names.  Sibling rivalry runs rampant in this brood, as I suspect it does in all of them, and apparently ” fire proof ” is the vilest of invectives.  It cracks me up every time they use it on each other…  all I can hear is some little brat from London, after a hit from a helium balloon.  (Don’t tell them… they’re still a bit sensitive about their voices.  It’s something they’ll grow out of eventually, but you know kids…  later might as well be forever)

The only thing that saves their little greenish backsides is that they’re so damned cute when they’re asleep!  (Which supposedly only happens when they’re little.  The big ones claim never to sleep.  I don’t know whether to believe them or not.)

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