“Sell this house?” said Mrs. Pig, “but my grandfather built it with his own hands! And-”

“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Pig, “he built it brick by brick, and it withstood all the huffing and puffing from the wolf, while your great uncles’ houses were demolished. We’ve all heard the story many times and I know how important this house is to your family, but can’t you see we’re running out of space?”

Mr. Pig waved his trotter at the room behind him where a dozen little piglets lay squealing in a heap on the floor while four older pigs ran around them, dribbling a soccer ball. In the corner a hanging crib held three baby pigs and underneath that several more pigs sat at a tiny table, pretending to study.

Mrs. Pig sighed. She knew the house was too small, but what could they do? The children were too scared to move out, and their family kept growing and growing.

“Look, I spoke to a new realtor today,” said Mr. Pig, producing a brochure. “We can build our own house out of wood, over beyond the pond, on that new patch of land that used to be a forest, and we can have as many rooms as we want.”

“Wood? But Great Uncle Tom’s house was made out of wood and look what happened to him!”

“No, I don’t mean a house of sticks; flimsy wobbly things – no wonder they fell down. I mean a log cabin, with interlocking pieces that you can expand by adding modules. It would be perfect for us.”

Mrs. Pig was troubled, but after studying the pictures of the large, spacious houses, and reading the realtor’s proposal, she thought that perhaps she should put her family’s needs first so she agreed to the move. Mr. Pig began designing their new house with lots of advice from the younger members of the family.

“Can I have my own room?” asked more than one little pig, only to be told they would still have to share with some of their siblings.

Mr. and Mrs. Pig made a point of supervising the construction, to be sure that the windows were installed properly and that the optional chimney was included. Each time they visited the building the younger piglets played leap frog over the steadily diminishing piles of logs; the wails when their tails became trapped between the stacks of wood made Mrs. Pig worry that the house would be a hazard but her husband assured her that the logs would form a solid wall when slotted into place.

Before she closed the door on the brick house for the last time, Mrs. Pig took down the photograph of her grandfather and his two brothers from the mantelpiece. Poor Great Uncles Tom and Bert never had a chance to raise their own families. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, then gave the key to the family of goats that had bought the house and climbed onto the back of the moving van which held all their possessions. At the new house the piglets had started a game of sliding down the long, smooth bannister, landing in giggling heaps on the floor, while Mr. Pig oversaw the unloading of the furniture. Mrs. Pig propped the photo of her grandfather up on the new mantelpiece and took a moment to absorb the strong smell of wood. She walked around the house, testing the window latches and the lock on the front door until she was satisfied that the house could be secured, then she made a pot of tea, and, ignoring the pandemonium, sat down to relax in her new kitchen.

“Look, Mama, we even have a cat flap!” cried one of the tiniest piglets, poking his head through a small swinging flap at the bottom of the kitchen door, and waving his front trotter at her.

“Goodness! Whatever do we need that for? We don’t have a cat,” said Mrs. Pig. “Is that safe?”

“Can we keep it, please?”

“All the homes have them,” said Mr. Pig, coming into the kitchen with the paperwork to sign. “It’s an added benefit, according to the brochure. The realtor said that all the neighbours love them.”

It took a very long time for the family to settle that night, with the young ones rushing around, claiming bedrooms and opening all the windows to lean out and wave at the people outside, but gradually exhaustion took over and once the house was quiet, and the door latched, Mr. and Mrs. Pig curled up together on the sofa and raised a toast to Grandfather Pig.

In the kitchen, the cat flap opened silently and a long furry arm reached inside and felt for the latch.

Not so long ago it was the custom for every self-respecting Prince to slay a dragon in order to prove his worth before seeking the hand of a Princess in marriage. Naturally every self-respecting dragon took exception to this custom and, when not breathing fire and brimstone over the hapless Princes, kept themselves well out of the way. In time this led to a shortage of dragons and some very short-tempered Princes.

The Princesses were also unhappy, because the stream of suitors asking for their hand in marriage dried up, for no Prince would dream of seeking a bride without having at least one dragon slaying to his credit.

“Daddy, it’s not fair!” shouted Princess Materi, “Lucy and Genevieve had at least three Princes each come and drool over their hand before they were married, and Terena even has a bracelet of dragon’s teeth and a dragon scale rug. And now it is my turn to be courted and not a single Prince has turned up in a month!”

“There, there, my dear,” murmured the King, wondering if he would be asked to give up half his kingdom to get her married off.

“Who would want to drool over your hand anyway?” asked Prince Luand. “What about me? I haven’t ever seen a dragon, let alone fought one. Just my luck to get stuck in the castle with you for company.”

And the two siblings continued their bickering day in and day out. It was the same in neighbouring kingdoms; state visits were a thing of the past, for who would want to visit another monarch without bringing tales of daring and gifts of dragon’s teeth or scales?

“Your Majesty,” said the court Wizard one day, “I have an idea.”

The King glanced listlessly at the Wizard, expecting another display of rabbits popping out from goblets of mead.

“Why don’t we breed our own dragons?”

“What? Have those dreadful creatures in the castle, breathing fire all over the tapestries?” said the Queen.

“No, Your Majesty, we’d keep them in the barn, then when visiting Princes came we’d release one at the far end of the field. Nobody would know.”

The King thought about this new idea for a few days and the more he considered it, the more it appealed to him. So the next week the Wizard conjured some dragon eggs and set them to hatch in the barn. Day after day he went to look at them but there was no change.

“When are the eggs going to hatch?” Prince Luand kept asking. “I want to start practising dragon killing right away.”

“But you can’t kill them when they are babies!” cried Princess Materi, “besides, my suitors will need dragons themselves!”

The King became impatient; the whole court became impatient and still the eggs did not hatch.

“Who is sitting on the eggs, my dear?” asked the Queen one morning, when she could bear the tension no longer.

“Sitting?” asked the King.

“Sitting?” asked the Wizard.

“Yes, you know, keeping the eggs warm; incubating them.”

The Queen looked at the King, the King looked at the Wizard and the Wizard looked behind him where he saw the cat sleeping, curled in a ray of sunlight.

“The cat is!” he cried, scooping up the indignant cat and running out of the castle, all the way across the field to the barn.

“Here you are, kitty,” he said, placing the cat gently on the eggs, “here’s your new bed.”

The cat hissed and arched its back and the Wizard got ready to cast a calming spell when all of a sudden it looked beneath it, sniffed at the surface of an egg and began to purr. Louder and louder the sound became, until the whole barn was filled with a roaring thrum.

Two days later the first egg hatched. The little dragon unfolded its sticky wings, took one look at the cat and flew out of the barn. The cat did not appear to care.

The Wizard replaced the egg with a new one and the cat continued as before, while the court watched the progress of the young dragon, flitting around the countryside, eating sheep and cows, getting bigger by the day.

“Can I go and fight the dragon, Father?” asked Prince Luand.

“No!” shrieked Princess Materi, “we need a dragon for my suitor to slay!”

The problem was solved the very next day with the birth of a second dragon, who followed its elder sibling to ravage the countryside.

The King was delighted.

“I’ll be the envy of all the land! Every Prince from far and wide will come here to face the dragons. My daughter will have the best husband, my son will soon have a score of dragon pelts to his name!”

“But what if you run out of dragon eggs?” asked the Queen, “you can’t just keep conjuring them out of nothing.”

“I won’t need to conjure them any more, Your Majesty,” explained the Wizard. “You see, a fallen dragon’s tooth grows into an egg if planted the same day it falls out; provided we collect all the fallen dragons’ teeth and plant them immediately, we’ll have a constant supply of eggs.”

“Hmm, I see. And what about that cat, the blanket,” asked the King, “will it stay on the eggs?”

“You don’t need to worry about her,” replied the Wizard, “the dragons have scared all the mice into the barn. She’ll live there happily ever after.”

The dragon lay inside its cave, its shallow breathing sending small puffs of smoke upwards. His belly was full and he was resting before his next flight. He licked his lips with his forked tongue, remembering the taste of his last meal – a young sheep from the field over the mountain. Not as sweet as princesses, but they were so hard to find these days.

The dragon burped and a small tongue of fire flickered out of his mouth, then he settled back to sleep. He dreamed of a big castle far away, full of succulent princesses. Big ones, little ones, fat ones, juicy ones. All waiting for him to drop by for breakfast.

He would soar above the mountains then swoop down on the unsuspecting kingdom. He imagined himself perched on the rampart of the castle, wings outstretched, casting a huge black shadow on the courtyard, princesses running squealing in all directions, holding their skirts in their hands.

Yes, those darned skirts. If only princesses didn’t have to wear clothes. They were so difficult to digest, all those petticoats, and the prickly crowns, that tasted as if they were crusted with salt. Not the jewels, of course, those he liked to keep, picking them out one by one with his talons. He had quite a collection now in his cave. Why couldn’t princesses be kept in a field, like sheep, except without the woolly coats. Now that would be a fine meal.

The dragon rolled over and crushed its wing uncomfortably. It opened one eye and caught a glint of sunlight reflecting off steel. No, it couldn’t be. Not another hero, coming to show off. Really, couldn’t these knights wait until after lunch?