About the Home

Intake

Intake is handled by Mrs. Clodpull, a former troll bouncer with a heart the size of a dwarf bread oven. She has two questions for every new arrival:

  • “Are you eating people?” (If yes, we have a strict three-strike policy. Strike one is a very stern talking-to.)

  • “Do you know where you are?” (If no, congratulations, you’ve come to the right place.)

Medical bay

Run by Dr. Flannel, a human veterinarian who thought he’d be treating cats and dogs until one Tuesday afternoon changed everything. He now specialises in:

  • Scale rot in elderly draccus (complicated by their refusal to admit they have scales)

  • Anaemia in urban-dwelling vampires (the city blood banks are very particular about paperwork)

  • Existential dread in phoenixes (they keep bursting into flame unexpectedly, it’s a cry for help)

  • Wing-clipping services for cockatrices (done at twilight, with the creature blindfolded, while someone reads calming poetry about rocks)

His assistant is Kevin, a young man who wanted to work with animals and is just now realising that “animals” meant something different to him than it did to the universe.

The feeding programme

This is the single largest expense and the single greatest source of daily chaos. Breakfast:

  • Minotaurs: Hay, fresh. With a side of old newspapers (they like the crossword).

  • Vampire bats: Blood substitute, warmed, served in a teacup with a little umbrella (they appreciate the effort).

  • Werewolves: Meat. Lots of meat. Raw. In a bucket. Left outside the door during certain phases of the moon.

  • Dragons: Coal, paraffin, and the occasional small, cooked sausage as a treat.

  • The thing in the basement: Nobody asks. A bucket goes down on a rope. The bucket comes up empty. Everyone pretends not to notice.

The communal dining room is, against all odds, the heart of the home. Species that would eat each other in the wild sit at separate tables and glare. But they glare together. There’s a strange camaraderie in mutual bewilderment. The hissing is just background noise now.

Behavioural support

This is the most innovative department, run by Madame Zara, a psychic who wasn’t very good at predicting the future but discovered she had a real gift for listening to creatures who had no one else. Common therapy topics:

  • “I used to terrorise villages. Now I can’t even afford a cave.”

  • “My last owner said I was ‘too mythical’ for the lease.”

  • “Everyone expects me to breathe fire, but I have anxiety.”

  • “I’m 400 years old, and I’ve outlived everyone I ever loved. Also, I think I have indigestion.”

Group therapy sessions are held on Tuesdays. The werewolves sit in the back, the vampires sit away from windows, and the dragons sit slightly too close to the curtains. It’s chaos. It’s beautiful.

Art therapy involves a lot of claw-shaped finger painting and, in one memorable case, a basilisk who accidentally turned the art supplies to stone. We’ve framed it. It’s on the wall.

Rehoming and outreach

The ultimate goal is to find these creatures a place in the world. This is harder than it sounds.

Successful placements have included:

  • A retired hippogriff now working as a living weathervane on the Unseen University (he has strong opinions about wind direction).

  • A young wyvern employed by the Thieves’ Guild as a living alarm system (he sleeps 18 hours a day, but he looks terrifying).

  • A phoenix with depressive episodes now living at the Ankh-Morpork Times, where her spontaneous combustions are used as a deadline reminder for journalists.

The “Adopt-a-Legend” programme: For a small monthly donation, citizens of Ankh-Morpork can sponsor a specific creature. They receive:

  • A monthly update (“Your griffin, Reginald, has learned to perch without falling off!”)

  • A claw-painted holiday card

  • The knowledge that they are keeping a mythical creature in kibble

Unadoptable Residents: Some creatures are too bewildered, too traumatised, or simply too weird to ever leave. They live out their days at the Home, cared for and loved. The thing in the basement has been here for 12 years. We’ve stopped asking what it is. It seems happier that way.

Funding

  • Grants from the Patrician’s Office (Vetinari finds the whole thing “amusing in a metropolitan sort of way”)

  • Donations from Lady Sybil Ramkin (she sends a cheque every year and a note saying “I’m so proud of what you’ve done with the dragon wing!”)

  • A small bequest from a deceased vampire (he left them his coffin; they use it as a donation box)

  • C.M.O.T. Dibbler’s “Genuine Authentic Bewildered Beast” sausages (the Home receives a tiny royalty; nobody asks what’s in them)

  • The weekly bingo night (held in the communal dining room; the werewolves always win because they count cards)

The unwritten rules

Every resident learns these within a week:

  1. Don’t eat the volunteers. They mean well, and they’re the ones with the food.

  2. If you breathe fire, warn someone first. The curtains are new.

  3. The thing in the basement gets the first bucket. Don’t ask why. Just accept it.

  4. Mrs. Clodpull is always right. Even when she’s wrong. Especially when she’s wrong.

  5. You are not a monster. You’re a legend who took a wrong turn. There’s a difference.

The daily rhythm

Mornings start with the sound of Kevin screaming (something has escaped). Mid-mornings involve recapturing whatever escaped. Lunch is chaos. Afternoons are for therapy, wing-clipping, and existential conversations. Evenings are quiet, the creatures settle, the volunteers go home, and the night staff (all vampires, for obvious reasons) take over.

And somewhere, in the warm, slightly smoky darkness of the Home for Bewildered Beasts of Legend, a confused griffin curls up in a nest of old blankets, a depressed phoenix glows faintly in her sleep, and the thing in the basement … purrs.

“We don’t fix them. We just give them somewhere to be bewildered in peace.” ~ Motto of the Home (unofficial, coined by a volunteer after three mugs of tea)