The worst thing at Granddad and Grandma’s house is the dragon. When the three children go to sleep, it comes out and flies outside the house, circling and circling until it descends onto the roof above the room that they are sharing while we are on vacation in Los Angeles, my childhood home.
“I’ve seen it,” says my six-year-old daughter. “It looked at me through the window and it stuck its tongue out at me.”
“A cheeky dragon,” I say, still drowsy in the morning.
“No. It’s hungry. It thinks I’m a sausage.”
“Sausages!” says my four-year-old son.
“It wants to eat us.”
Good god! What can we do with this fire-breathing beast that disturbs their sleep and keeps them under the covers and wants to swallow them whole like sausages?
The kids have ideas.
“Kick it,” says my son. “Like this.”
He kicks a suitcase on the floor as hard as possible. Thud!
“No,” says my daughter. “We’ve got to get the police and they have to come here and ‘boom, boom, boom.’ Or we can run to the airport and fly home.”
I like the latter, the first seeming too confrontational (and dangerous) and the second a bit too L.A. The third? Home sweet home in Argentina.
Oh, but there’s a catch. Dragons, the two tell me excitedly. Dragons can fly very fast and so we may get chased all the way to Argentina because this is a very, very hungry dragon and it wants to eat us. “Like sausages,” they say.
I wouldn’t blame this fiend, really. We’d certainly taste better than airplane food.