We kept (so I dreamt) a fare-breathing dragon. Although covered in iridescent scales, his hide was warm and cozy to the touch. We hand-fed him (red) pistachios, and his forked tongue tickled rather. I led him on a leash whenever I took the T, and when we approached the turnstile, he exhaled, and we would enter the system.
The conductors considered him a service animal.
When we traveled by car, we never took Farry (as we called him)—his talons would have been hell on the upholstery. When friends asked us what it was like, having a dragon for a pet ... We've met so many fewmets, we boasted.
Separately: never feed ocelots omelettes.
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