For JoAnn--Discworld

Sybil pulled off the heavy leather gloves and picked up the little log book she kept at the entrance of the kennel. Lord Charles Grayboy Bluescale IV was doing quite well today, and she made a mental note to thank Sarah for recommending a bisulfuric compound to treat the scalerot.

The rustling, growling, gurgling noises of the kennel were quite soothing, and Sybil sat down with a sigh. She knew, vaguely, that the rest of Morporkian society considered her to be quite...eccentric for preferring the company of her swamp dragons. But, really, Sybil couldn't think of any reason why she shouldn't. Dragons were so much easier to get along with -- they didn't care about things like large bones and clumsy good cheer, or the ever-present chemical smell, or the fact that there was a small nest of mice living in her best wig. There was no politics, no scheming, no snide remarks made with a fake smile, no nattering on about the latest fashions. All the dragons cared about was if they were fed on time; they didn't care what the hand that fed them looked like or thought.

And dragons, as a rule, made much better companions than any person could.


"In here, Sam."

Of course, there always was an exception to any rule.