21st Century Dragonslayer's Lament

I am a Dragonslayer. My title is not Sir or Lord or Prince, but Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. My quest did not begin with a plea from a Queen or a charge from a dying adventurer. It began with a two-stage interview process and a yearlong contract with the Humane Society.

I am a Dragonslayer. My reward is not a princess' hand in marriage or a half a kingdom. Rather it is a set salary deposited to my bank account on a biweekly basis, with generous medical benefits and potential for overtime.

I am a Dragonslayer and I have dental coverage.

The dragons did not burst from a newly active volcano, or awaken from a magical sleep far below the earth. The dragons were created by Harald Jacobson, PhD, a geneticist specializing in commercial applications of genetic engineering for the residential market. The first battle against the dragons was not fought with wizards and sorcerers, or archers and knights. The battle was with the legal bill H.R. 3320 "To control and regulate the companion animal status of created life forms." The dragons were victorious and quickly colonized our homes.

My quarry was not curled in a mountain eyrie, sleeping on gold and gems. He was not guilty of stealing maidens or harrying townsfolk. The dragon had grown too large to be cute and easily adopted, and was found wandering the streets, eating from garbage cans and covered in parasites.

My lance is steel-tipped, sharp, and filled with barbiturates. It does not break when plunged into the dragon's skin and veins, but I must discard it anyway, due to Regulation 1.03 on safe disposal of sharps. The dragon breathes its last, and my work is done. I am not showered with gold or the praises of the king, but with Form 7.27 "Proper Disposal of Biological Waste"--which I must fill out in triplicate. I am a Dragonslayer and I weep.