Pinky

Get a pet dragon they said, it’ll be great they said. No one seemed to mention their need to hoard everything…

(unedited)

Life is never easy, I feel it deeply. Years of struggles as low level clerk means counting pennies and scrimping wherever I can. It was a fine Sunday morning when I found myself with a little extra money to spend, a rare occasion, mind you.

I decided to splurge on a bottle of expensive moisturiser, so off I went to the chemist in the mall. A few shops away from the chemist was a pet store that I normally never paid attention to. Who am I to keep a pet when I can’t even afford a cup of takeaway coffee more than once a month?

There were five or six little kids in the shop, standing around a cage that the shop attendant put on the floor, each of them were excitedly talking (aka shouting….) all at once. The loudest one was a little girl of about seven or eight years old, “Mom, mom, I want that pink one! Pink one please, pweeeeeaaseee…??”. A sharp little yelp was heard. “No honey, don’t pinch it’s tail, put it down. No, no, don’t smash it… put it down gently!” “Awwwwwwhh!”.

Along with the little girl’s shriek, a little pink ball zoomed out of the shop’s door. I stopped abruptly to avoid stepping on it. The little pink ball curled up around my left foot, a pair of pencil-thin front limbs stretched out, tiny claws that sunk on the flesh of my ankle felt itchy rather than painful.

I looked down, a pair of coal-black shiny round eyes were looking into mine, the little snout with oversize teeth was slightly open, it emitted a weak whimper much like a puppy being beaten. I was sold.

When I looked back to that day, nostalgia made my eyes misty. That was the first time I met my dear Pinky. I never regretted the money spent that day, and it was admittedly quite exciting to fight for the right to buy her with that little girl’s snobbish mom. I won the fight by offering to pay $60 more over the price. Well, I was glad that obviously her daughter’s whiny cries was not worth the $60 extra.

Everyone said get a pet dragon, it’ll be great. Noone seemed to mention their need to hoard everything.

Pinky went home with me, I put an basket covered with old rags in the corner of the kitchen. She was timid at first, crouching in the basket with her eyes warily darting around, the little snout puffed little wisps of smoke when I took out some roast chicken out from the microwave. She ate eagerly, obviously the dozens little dragons in the cage were not fed very well at the pet shop, then she curled up and slept. What a cute little thing, quite well-behaved I say.

The next morning, the first sign of her hoarding obsession was soon apparent. All of my teatowels and oven mitts were piled in the basket, along with a small teaspoon.

Over the years as Pinky grew up, her obsession moved from collecting cloths and rags to shiny little things much like magpies, then to colourful things like the next door neighbour’s red slippers or azure-blue small plant pots, then to gradually larger and more random things as her body grew.

When her pair of wings grew thicker and stronger, and she started to learn to fly up to tree branches, she brought home fruits and bird nests, and sometimes the birds as well. When she was comfortable enough to fly to the roofs, and her limbs were as strong as goat’s, she began to forcefully invited the neighbourhood cats home. She would tucked the struggling cats in her lair (which was the door-less outdoor shed that I bought second-hand), growled some dragon-version lullaby from her smoking snout while pressing them down to sleep. Unfortunately none of the cats were fond of this treatment, and soon after they escaped, without fail I would get visits from their complaining owners.

Dragons reach adulthood much later than we human do. Pinky was a big girl starting to go on dates when I finally reached the retirement age. I was looking forward to sitting at home enjoying retirement accompanied by my big girl, but I ended up sitting alone in my increasingly crowded home, waiting for her to come home from her dates. I never asked because she would love some privacy, and of course, because I never understood her growls and grunts whenever she tried to tell me something longer. I do understand her special tones of growls for ‘I am hungry, feed me’ or ‘Come play with me’ or ‘Look, I found this shiny thing, can I keep it?’, but nothing longer than that. The third reason is, as I became older I couldn’t stand the heat of her breath that comes out with the growls, especially when she was excited. It was fine in winter, but in summer I prefer to stand at least 2 metres away from her when she talked.

I have never achieved much in my career, luckily I inherited this 3 bedrooms house with quite a large backyard, enough for Pinky to roll around on the grass (which I have to replace quite often whenever she accidently burnt, I paid for a membership on my local hardware store for discounts on fresh grass), and for stashing all the things she hoarded. I paid for cleaners to pick up the stuff once a year in November, they said I am quite lucky that my dragon was not much attached to her hoard, some people’s dragons got upset when their hoards were taken out, in the last 5 years there have been 2 cases of burnt houses in the town due to pet dragons throwing tantrums during their annual clean ups.

Four years ago, Pinky brought home much more things than before, more expensive things. There were a dark red leather recliner, a slow cooker, an LED magnifying glass, and a wheelchair. I laughed at her for taking home useless things, and her pair of coal-black big eyes narrowed with resentment. Thick black eyelashes glistening under the sun like a pair of fans. My Pinky was a pretty dragon girl. I sighed happily.

I soon found out the source of the stuff. One evening after dinner, the sound of powerful dragon wings flapping vibrated my ceiling. Pinky soon crawled through the door, and behind her was a dark green-blue dragon. They growled and grunts in front of me, I inched towards the fridge as it was a warm autumn and two dragons talking were slightly more than just warm.

Until today I still don’t know what they said, but it didn’t matter. It is much easier to talk to baby dragons than the adult ones, the language is much simpler, most of the times it’s just ‘I am hungry, feed me’ or ‘Come play with me’ or ‘Look, I found this shiny thing, can I keep it?’. Three baby dragons are frolicking around my knees, two are dark pink like Pinky, and one is blue. Funny thing is, one of the pinks and that blue one are twins, while the other pink hatched after the twins. I don’t really name them because I am not their parents, and I am sure Pinky and Greeny have given their names in dragon language.

Three years ago Pinky suddenly cracked open my roof, put me on the bed, then together with Greeny, took my and my bed to the mountains. It was then that I met my in-laws for the first time. Greeny was raised in a farm on the slope of the mountains, and here I am since then, as a part of Pinky’s hoard that she brought into her union with Greeny.

My Pinky was fine with having her hoard cleaned up every year, but she would not let go of this one special hoard: me. I am so proud of my pretty dragon girl. My Pinky.