He isn’t a mighty dragon that any myths depict, bravely fighting off adventurers to protect his treasure, nor a fearsome companion that I soar through the skies with. You won’t see him on the battlefield, roaring with enough strength to shake the earth; in fact, he’s the quietest member of my family, squeaking only in surprise in the 20 gallons of water he lives in. He’s a spanish ribbed newt, which my 11-year-old self named Issac Newton, a birthday gift that excited me beyond belief. I was over the moon upon learning that he could live with me for 20 years, defending me against the great foes of boredom and homework; my mom was undeniably thrilled to hear that as well, the remark conveniently made after she’d signed the receipt.
Issac is arguably one of the best things to have happened to me. He’s more popular than most people I know, his fans transcending any social order out of curiosity and appreciation for my somewhat uncommon pet. He’s one of my go-to fun facts about myself during awkward icebreakers, has landed me friends with other proud reptile owners, and he gives me something more interesting to talk about than just listing my four dogs. My friends at Skidmore all delightedly crowd around my phone when my mom, who is graciously taking care of him while I can’t, sends pictures of him.
Of course, he’s more than just a talking point. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look forward to seeing him at the end of every long day wearing a mask at school or late nights spent in the theater during tech week. His curious, though sometimes seemingly mocking, gaze from his tank during college applications made every rewritten essay that much more worth it. His nighttime antics of dive-bombing the plastic plant that resides in the center of his aquarium never failed to wake me up from piles of chemistry homework. And, of course, he’s the perfect companion during the late-night homework sessions, when senioritis became a progressive condition.
Issac isn’t the perfect pet for everyone. He isn’t the ideal animal to go on walks with or take out of his tank, but in the space between us lives an ever-growing bond since that fateful day nearly seven years ago, when I pointed to him on the shelf of Jungle Bob’s Reptile World. He isn’t a dragon, and I’m not a dragon-taming knight, but at the end of the night he’s the only one still awake to watch my seemingly ceaseless hours of Guitar Hero. And honestly, that’s kind of the same thing.