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DRAGONS: OUR FIERY FRIENDS
By Volodimir Kapusianyk, Ph.D.
FOREWORD

Relegated to myth by many cultures, dragons did, in fact, exist--but now, alas, are extinct, the last having died in captivity in 1911 in a small travelling zoo in Nebraska, where, as a teenager, I saw it. It was a pitiful creature, scrawny, barely eight feet long, not a whisp of smoke coming from it, and, greatest indignity of all, mistakenly labeled a "Rare Winged Garter Snake." But I knew better, and on that fateful day chose to devote my life to the study of these magnificent creatures.

Many critics deride draconology, claiming a creature like a dragon, apparently reptilian, yet able to fly and breathe fire, is scientifically impossible.

The key, however, is that phrase "apparently reptilian." Yes, dragons looked reptilian--but they were not. They were, in fact, a phylum unto themselves, like no other creatures that ever walked the Earth.

This textbook contains all I have learned or theorized about dragons. Chapter 2, for example, deals with flight. To fly, a creature must generate enough lift to counteract the force gravity exerts on its mass. To fly really well, you must maximize lift and minimize mass. Dragons' huge wings generated plenty of lift, and they minimized their mass in two ways.

First, their bones, like birds', were almost hollow. Second, they were made, not of the usual mixture of calcium and other minerals, but from long chains of hydrocarbons: a natural form of very strong, very light plastic which also formed their incredibly tough scales (Chapter 9).

In fact, their whole bodies were awash in hydrocarbons. They had large internal bladders filled with methane, a natural byproduct of digestion in humans, and more so in dragons. Methane is lighter than air, so this bladder, like a giant internal balloon, reduced mass (and enhanced flight) even more.

Methane is also flammable, and dragons evolved a way to spew flaming methane for defensive purposes (Chapter 14). Study of dragon fossils (Chapter 5) reveals that dragons had a specialized organ in the roof of their mouth in which a jagged nugget of iron, coalesced from iron in the dragon's bloodstream, hung suspended with pieces of flint, which the dragon ingested as needed. When the dragon exhaled methane, the iron and flint tumbled around, generating sparks, which ignited the gas.

Dragons' peculiar body chemistry also made their blood highly corrosive (Chapter 10). Essentially, they were walking chemical factors, their bloodstreams filled with toxic waste.

Finally, in Chapter 21, we will examine in detail how dragons' growing dependence for food on virgins provided by local villagers made them fat, lazy and easy prey for glory-hungry knights, who drove them into the long, slow decline that ended at last with the death of that poor, bedraggled specimen in Nebraska.

Draconology is a difficult but rewarding field of study. I hope you enjoy your journey through it.

9:24 PM

But you know what? The pleasure of singing in a really good chorus was worth it. I've sung a cappella in church all my life, starting as a boy soprano and working my way through all the parts as my voice changed, eventually ending up as a second bass. In high school I sang in the chorus conducted by my father; in university I sang in the very fine Harding A Cappella Chorus, directed by Dr. Kenneth Davis Jr. ("Uncle Bud"), and now for the past few years I've sung off an on (mostly on) with the University of Regina Chamber Singers, directed by Kathryn Laurin.

I used to have a quote about choral music above my desk at the Weyburn Review. I can't remember the exact words, but it was to the effect that there is no music of any kind that can compare to that created by human voices when they are well used and "well-ordered." I absolutely believe that. I've played in bands; instrumental music can be spectacular, but there's something a little more distant about it than there is about the music made by an ensemble of human voices. The thrill of a barely-audible pianissimo; the excitement of a fortissimo chord; the rapid give-and-take of polyphony; the beautifully shaped phrases of a Latin mass; nothing compares.