The King of Sheesham kept a pet dragon. He found it one day on a hunting trip and took a fancy to it, for no other monarch had one. As a lover of lore, he named it Lotan. Everyone agreed, however, it was a rather odd dragon: it never grew out of its terrier size; it had no spikes on its spine, and it never breathed fire. But most surprisingly, it was a vegetarian.
    
The first day it arrived, it astonished everyone by speaking in a very high-pitched voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to be a nuisance, but could I please have a bowl of greens? Anything will do.” So, Lotan dined on sautéed spinach every afternoon with a kale salad on the weekends; and all the staff, especially the cook, thought it a complete namby-pamby in every respect.
    
The King himself was secretly a little disappointed in his pet. While he loved it, he was embarrassed to have the courtiers snickering behind his back. He sometimes looked hopefully for more draconic traits; but the poor dragon, though it felt these expectations keenly, regretted that it couldn’t live up to them. It just didn’t like eating sheep and cows and princesses. It hated the thought of violence and destruction, and the smell of smoke made it dizzy.
    
It was reflecting on how much it appreciated the quiet life when that evening, curled up at the foot of the King’s bed and listening to its master’s ponderous snore, it heard the door creak open. There was a white flash of a sword—someone was coming to kill the King!
    
Lotan was outraged.
    
Leaping up to its full one-and-a-half-foot height, it puffed out its chest and bellowed fiercely, “Stop there! You traitor! You scoundrel!” Immediately, the guards came running down the corridor to the King’s chamber, and the miscreant—still in shock at the vociferous dragon—was put in irons.
    
After that, the courtiers gradually began to overlook Lotan’s eccentricities. Even if it made a bad dragon, Lotan was still an excellent watchdog and convinced the King to eat his vegetables.