Long ago, in a small white house by a sinister woodland, there was a little girl who was reading The Hobbit. She spent much time lost in this book, wandering through a world full of adventure and magic and dragons.
One day, the little girl's talented and crafty aunt, who lived not far away at all, came for a visit. When she heard what the little girl was reading (for they talked often, in that house, of the books they were reading) she offered to make the girl a dragon of her very own.
The girl was startled at first, for she hadn't imagined that such a thing was possible. Then she broke into a smile and, jumping up and down a little, said, "Yes, please!"
A few months later, after many misadventures at the dragon factory, the elegant, emerald creature was ready for delivery. And one day the little girl woke up to find a fine crochet dragon waiting for her on the coffee table in the living room of the small white house.
They have never been separated since.
The end.
Well, not quite.
Meet Smaug. I named him after the dragon in Tolkien, of course.
Although he has never laid waste to anything that I know of, and, sadly, has never acquired a golden hoard to sleep on, he does have an irrepressible, goofy quality that is very endearing.
Recently, my aunt asked if I could knit something for her. I haven't seen the pattern yet, and I have the impression that this is some kind of actual garment, which will probably prove to be beyond me, but I told her that I would be happy to try.
She offered to buy the yarn, and when I said that wouldn't be necessary, she offered to pay me. I told her no, again. When she protested, I said, "Do you remember the green dragon that you made for me when I was little?"
She had no idea what I was talking about. So I asked my husband to take a picture of me and Smaug, so that I could print up a copy to give my aunt.
He humored me, of course. Love is like that.
Oh, and by the way, the kid in the story above was reading an adapted version of The Hobbit, specially edited for children. In all honesty, the full version of any Tolkien book is a bit of a slog until you get the hang of his writing style. I just mention this so that you don't hand off a copy to your little angel and expect them to thank you for it, because then you'll both be disappointed. And sorry, no, I have no idea what version I read as a child. That was a long time ago, after all!
