Chester, the Dragon (a re-post)

There is a dragon in my house, a little pot-bellied dragon.  It is cute, which is probably why it is allowed to sit on the kitchen countertop all day long.  Still, Patches, our cat, is cute...   Life is just not fair.  

The dragon, by name, is called Little Kitchenware, but little sister and I simply call him Chester.  I believe that Chester is my dad's favorite of all the pets in the house, and I believe my dad is Chester's favorite human.  

They do share a very special bond.  In the morning, my dad gets up and feeds and waters Chester, while I take care of Barney, our loyal dog.  Barney is my favorite pet in the house, and I think that I am Barney's favorite human.  I pour kibble out of a bag for Barney, who sits and licks his jowls.  Chester's food come from a bag as well, but my dad grinds Chester's food, while Chester stares on.  Apparently, our dragon likes only very dark colored powder that smells like tar.  So, one day, I tried to feed Chester part of our driveway, but I could not dig up any part of the driveway (it was very hard), so I went to the garden.  After feeding Chester compost, my dad screamed and yelled.  My mom pointed to the living room.  Mom gave Chester a bath.  I do not understand; they should have been happy that it wasn't mud pie.

I asked my father once if Chester was a baby, and whether he would soon fly.  My father replied something about flight feathers and without them he would not take to wing.  So I waited for two weeks, then I found light brown feathers in the yard by the pond.  They were very stiff and fairly long.  So, I glued them on to Chester, but they wouldn't stay on.  Then, I went to the basement and found the special tape, so I could tape the feathers on.  I then grabbed a chair and then I grabbed our little dragon.  I was just about ready to let go when my mother came in.

"I'm trying to teach him to fly," I told mom as she grabbed Chester away.

"He stays on the counter; he's too young yet today."

So, Chester, our dragon sits in the kitchen.  He purrs and he gurgles and he puffs clouds of steam that smell like tar after he gets fed.  He sounds very happy and sits like old Buddha, as adults gather around him while my parents entertain.  Barney and I go outside so we can play.  I look back in the window, and see Chester sitting there on the counter with his back to the sun.  I wonder if Chester ever gets antsy to just smell the grass or feel the wind on his skin.  I wonder if he would ever consider a lounge in the sun or a long game of fetch or even tug-o-war.  I wonder if he will ever get old enough to break free if our kitchen (and that tar smelling food) to fly with his relatives amongst the wind-driven rains, to see the great world from a air-thin altitude, and I wonder: will I would be there, too?