You know that feeling when you’ve smuggled a goldfish or hamster into your dorm, hoping to avoid the RA’s radar? Imagine that, but on a mythical level. As in, my pet isn’t even supposed to exist. Meet Arlo, my majestic—and slightly feral—griffin, currently residing in a makeshift nest under my bed. Sounds insane, right? Welcome to my life.
It all started one chilly October night while I was heading back to the dorms. I heard a noise coming from behind the campus greenhouse, like a mix between a cat’s growl and the chirping of a particularly vocal eagle. I thought it was just a raccoon rummaging around for scraps, but when I went to investigate, I found Arlo—part lion, part eagle, and entirely chaotic.
His feathers were ruffled, his lion half hungry, and his sharp eagle eyes bore right into me, as if he’d chosen me for reasons I still can’t fathom. A few growls and an awkward staring contest later, I brought him back to my room, because what else was I supposed to do with a wounded mythical creature?
That’s when the trouble began.
Hiding a regular pet is one thing. Hiding a griffin is a whole new level of are you out of your mind? For starters, Arlo is loud. He screeches whenever he’s hungry (which is always) and lets out this guttural growl at anyone who gets too close to my door. And don't get me started on his dietary needs. Do you know how hard it is to explain a bulk order of steak tartare on a student meal plan?
Then there’s the feather situation. Griffin feathers are… distinctive. They’re half golden, half lion-tawny, with this odd iridescent sheen. I found one in the hallway once, right outside my door, which almost gave me a heart attack. RAs are notorious for being eagle-eyed (pun intended), and I can’t even imagine the questions that would follow if they found a “feather” that looks like it came straight out of a fantasy movie set.
To throw them off, I’ve developed a whole system: cleaning every inch of the room, using incense to mask the faint smell of wilderness, and keeping music playing constantly to drown out his sounds. But still, my friends have started raising eyebrows. “What’s that smell?” “Is that… fur?” “Do I hear scratching?” I brush them off with excuses about old furniture or “allergies,” but I can’t keep this up forever.
Of course, my luck ran out during a noise complaint from my suitemate. Last week, there was a knock on my door around 10 p.m. It was my RA, Jenna, who’s known for her nosy (or in this case, life-threatening) curiosity. I almost had a heart attack when I heard Arlo let out this low growl from under my bed.
“Oh, hey, just checking up on a noise complaint,” Jenna said, casually glancing around my room. I could feel Arlo coiled and ready to spring, the primal instinct to defend his territory thrumming in his chest.
Thinking fast, I tossed my pile of dirty laundry over the edge of the bed, covering his golden feathers and talon peeking out. “Yeah, sorry, I was just… watching a documentary. About lions.”
Jenna raised an eyebrow, probably catching the nervous twitch in my smile, but nodded. “Alright. Just keep it down, yeah?”
It wasn’t until she left that I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Arlo shot me a glare—yes, griffins can glare, and it’s terrifying. I tossed him a piece of leftover steak to appease him, silently cursing myself for finding a mythical creature with the least dorm-friendly attitude in existence.
Despite the constant fear of discovery, there’s something magical (no pun intended) about having Arlo around. When I’m stressed about exams or deadlines, I’ll catch him nuzzling against my textbooks or pecking at my notes as if he’s offering some mythical form of encouragement. And I swear, he understands way more than any regular pet would. Sometimes, I’ll even talk to him about my day, and he’ll sit there, feathers rustling, his sharp eyes attentive.
And I’m not the only one who’s noticed Arlo’s uncanny ability to… connect. Last week, my friend came over, utterly defeated by midterms. Arlo, hidden under the bed, let out a quiet chirp—and her face lit up. “Did you hear that? It’s like… a comforting sound. Weird, but nice.” She had no idea how right she was. Arlo’s presence has this way of calming people down, of making them feel heard, even if they don’t know he’s there.
Now, with Celebration Weekend coming up, my anxiety is through the roof. My parents are nosy, and my little sister is curious enough to dive headfirst under the bed if she suspects anything out of the ordinary. There’s also this awful thought in the back of my mind that Arlo might sense their actions as a threat and do something... griffin-like.
So, I’ve come up with a plan. Arlo will spend the weekend in my closet, snuggled in a hastily constructed fort of blankets and whatever snacks I can squirrel away from the dining hall. I’m banking on my sister not questioning why my room suddenly smells like “the inside of a zoo exhibit,” as my friends lovingly put it.
If all else fails, I’ll tell them I’m doing a project on wildlife preservation. Which, honestly, isn’t too far from the truth.
Look, I know keeping a mythological creature hidden in a dorm isn’t exactly sane. Every day feels like a balancing act between Arlo’s wild instincts and the demands of college life. But there’s something about having him around—it’s like having a piece of a world that doesn’t quite fit with ours, something that reminds me to dream a little bigger, to believe that the impossible can sometimes be just... under your bed.
So, if you ever hear strange noises in our hall or catch a glint of golden feathers in the corner of your eye, don’t question it too hard. Maybe you’ve stumbled across a mythical roommate of your own. Just remember to keep quiet and toss a little extra steak their way.
And if you see my RA, don’t mention any of this.