I'm no expert on women. In fact, I'm probably one of the last guys you should ask on the subject. I just don't get 'em. And not because of "misogynist" things like I don't understand "emotions," or that I'm against women's lib (though I will say it's gone far enough). I think it's just because I don't take hints and I really don't temper what I say, ever. I'm just honest, okay.
So this whole rigamarole with the dragon and my wife, that's on me. I understand. I understand she got upset, but I'm not clear why. Not what she wanted, I guess. Honestly, as poor a husband as I am, I'd be a worse father. I mean, you should see how I treat the dog. Not well. Although I have no idea why I would. Fuck him.
So my anniversary, the fourteenth, the traditional gift is ivory. Ya hear that? Ivory. A dead elephant's tooth. I don't even think you can get that shit any more and for some reason, it's frowned upon. As if there aren't enough elephants.
So I bought her a dragon. You know, spice things up. It wasn't a dishwasher, but it wasn't what her sister, Ida said, a trip to the spa. You know, a gift for both of us. She can raise it to adulthood and it can keep her company when I'm away and keep her secure. And I can use it to get these bastard neighbor kids out of my yard and get some of this damn sumac out of the back lot. Because it breathes fire. These things were also a sign of prestige, back in elden times, or killing them was, anyway, but here we are, the future. Can't kill anything anymore.
Is it a status symbol? I don't know. Do you have a dragon?
I picked it up at that new store, Wizard's Menagerie. It was smoky inside and there was elven piping. The wizard who runs it looks like this old pothead in robes and a floppy hat, a beard and he's got all sorts of creatures in cages: a griffon, a wyvrn, a baby minotaur, some creepy little imps all lashed together at the wrist and, out back, warming in a brooder, some dragon hatchlings. They looked like goddamn bloody snakes with legs and tiny wings, but you know, all babies are ugly at first and then they grow to look like people. I bought one. I won't say for how much. None of your goddamn business, that's why.
So I find an old lunchbox and punch some holes in it with a screwdriver and keep it in there until it's the big day. Me and the wife go out to the Troll's Diner and get some pancakes and femmy morning drinks with wine and juice, I don't know what they were. And then I give her the package, which I had my niece wrap, so it'd be neat. She opens it and is kinda scared by the hissing and scurrying coming from the box, so I tell her to open it a crack. She refuses and has this look on her face like she's disgusted and I say Happy Anniversary. It's a dragon. I bought you a dragon.
She got up and left. Walked out to the car. Refused the thing. I let it go behind the restaurant. It beat ass towards the bushes and was gone.
No one else's husband would have bought them a dragon. It is not because I don't know what I'm doing. You get around someone for so long and things start to feel too familiar. Too sleepy, if you get me. I don't like to travel abroad, as I find foreigners sneaky and we'll never have a big enough boat or flat enough TV, or children. So I said fuck it, a dragon. Spice things up. There's something you don't see every day. Women want to nurture things. It could be anything. Ida said a cat. Fuck a cat. We already have this dog and the thing doesn't respect me. A dragon says something. I don't know if that something is I love you, but it definitely says something.
