Dragons do exist, but they’re certainly not mean or terrifying. They’re more like giant, scaly house pets with a flair for being inconvenient. Sure, they’ve got wings and breathe fire, but mostly, they’re just… there. Lurking around, taking up space, and generally being a nuisance.

Take Steve, for example. Steve’s my dragon. You’d think having a dragon named Steve would be exciting, but trust me, it’s not. He mostly lounges in the backyard, stretching out on the patio like a cat that’s eaten too much. Occasionally, he’ll knock over a lawn chair or set fire to the hedge when he sneezes. But for the most part, his days consist of sunbathing and staring blankly at squirrels.

People always imagine dragons as majestic or powerful, but Steve? Steve can’t even catch his own dinner. Every now and then, he’ll make a half-hearted attempt to chase down a bird, but it’s more out of boredom than hunger. When he does manage to catch something, he doesn’t even eat it—just sits on it until it wriggles free, then looks vaguely offended that his prey dared to escape.

The worst part is feeding him. Dragons, as it turns out, are incredibly picky eaters. You can’t just toss Steve a cow and call it a day. Oh no, he’s got preferences. It’s gotta be lamb, lightly charred on the outside but still rare in the middle. And don’t even think about giving him leftovers—he’ll just sniff at them, then flick his tail like a teenager who’s been served last week’s meatloaf.

But the real problem with having a dragon isn’t the food or the fire hazards—it’s the sheer amount of space they take up. Steve’s the size of a small bus, and when he’s sprawled across the yard, good luck getting anything done. Mowing the lawn? Forget it. He’ll just roll over and crush the mower under his belly, then stare at you like you’re the one being unreasonable. And trying to park the car when Steve decides to take a nap in the driveway? You may as well call in sick.

It doesn’t help that Steve snores. Loudly. Picture the sound of a freight train crashing into a thunderstorm, add a bit of phlegm, and you’re close. The neighbors used to complain, but eventually, they just accepted it. Now, the entire street has learned to sleep with earplugs, and most of them have given up on barbecues after the third or fourth accidental fire.

Despite all this, there’s a weird social pressure around owning a dragon. People always think it’s cool, like I’m living some kind of epic fantasy life. “Oh, wow, you have a dragon? That’s amazing!” they’ll say. But they don’t have to scoop up molten droppings from the driveway or explain to their insurance company why there’s a 30-foot scorch mark on the garage door.

Even the kids in the neighborhood used to think Steve was exciting—until they realized he doesn’t breathe fire on command and has no interest in flying them to school. Now, they just kind of ignore him, except for Tommy down the street, who occasionally throws a tennis ball at Steve’s head. Steve doesn’t even notice.

Honestly, dragons are about as exciting as owning a particularly lazy dog. You end up doing all the work while they just lounge around, knocking things over and occasionally burning your hedge. And yet, every time someone asks me what it’s like to have a dragon, I smile and nod, pretending it’s the best thing ever, like I’m in on some grand, magical secret.

But the truth is, Steve’s just… Steve. A big, overgrown lizard with a bad attitude and a snoring problem. And that’s about as far from majestic as you can get.