[ WP ] Dragons exist on Earth , but humans are still the dominant species . Write realistic stories about how life would be different .

A stuntnose went loose in this ladies house. Burned the carpets into marshmallow cinders, ate the drapes. Broke the thousand dollar floral vase. It's rabid, the lady kept saying. Rabid, wild animal, she did n't want it, but Archie, her son, she ca n't refuse him anything. He says a Cadillac, she asks what color. He says dragon, she asks what kind. Now the geranium garden is torn up worse than a groundhog's work, the towering family portrait is scorched, and the stuntnose has claimed the master bedroom. 
 
 Nasty thing, the lady says. Following us around. Nasty rabid creature. She wanted to get it neutered, heard that made them calm, docile, but she'd only had it a day before this. This lady has a golden-backed purse over her shoulder, shiny scales sewn up neat around her perfumes or credit cards. She has dragon leather couches, fire resistant, wear resistant, child resistant. 
 
 Nasty, nasty things, dragons. 
 
 At the bedroom door, we have to tell her to leave us. This is our job, ma'm, dangerous work. We've got the astronaut suits, tinfoil bright and crackling, we've got the wrangling sticks and the tranq shots. The lady steps to one side, clutching her purse. Wo n't go a step further. 
 
 The stuntnose has made a nest of bedsheets and linens. Torn some Egyptian thread count into cozy nest lining. It's pacing about the rim, maybe realizing the nest is too big for it, better suited for a gilded-wracked. 
 
 Odd problem with stuntnoses, they still think they're big dragons, clinging to old genetics. The pug of the dragon world. With its cueball eyes, cataract filmy by two years, but oh do n't they look like gemstones before then. Royal purple wings, so long it trips over the soft membrane, leaving a ragged sail by year three. Snout, scrunched up short, fitting the name, too short for the fire glands to work. Stuntnoses try, anyways. Choking by year two, most common death. 
 
 Pete goes to one side, wrangling stick held out. My job is to dangle a fatty, bleeding sirloin in front of it. Tempt it away from the nest. Set up its hunting instincts. Stuntnose goes for it, clumping towards me, wings dragging in shwish-shiwsh. Mouth open, baring rubbery fangs, coughing out a puff of matchstick smell. 
 
 Then Pete has the noose around it's neck and we're both reeling it in, stuntnose wailing, flapping its too soft wings. Its tail whips into my shins, bruising. No tail spikes though. We raise it into the air, all hundred pounds of it, goggles sparing our eyes a tail gouging. Pete lets the noose slacken. Drops stuntnose into the bag I'm holding, tinfoil under burlap under plastic under tinfoil, and I drawstring it shut. 
 
 Outside, the lady does a ladies gasp, hand over mouth, and follows us. I hope it was n't too much trouble, she says. Did it mess the bed, did it, well, did it poop anywhere. Do we want a drink, she has lemonade, something stronger if we like. 
 
 We toss the bag into the truck, pull out the drive, driving back to the city center. Back to base. The stuntnose is slated for a cocktail, barbituates and tributame and a garnish of diluted cyanide. We pass dog walkers and dragon walkers, the dragons muzzled and the dogs cowering anyways. More stuntnoses, and pygmy snakenecks, and a few baby full growers that will soon be our next paycheck. 
 
 The stuntnose shuffles in the back. Makes a low, childish keen.
