Bringing an Emotional Support Animal (ESA) into your life is a big decision—one that offers companionship, comfort, and, in some cases, a fair amount of unpredictability. While many people turn to traditional choices like dogs and cats, others find emotional support in more exotic and unconventional creatures.
Some ESAs are quiet, low-maintenance, and easy to care for—ideal for those who want a soothing presence without too much responsibility. Others are visually striking and fascinating to observe but prefer admiration from a distance rather than direct interaction. Then there are those that demand respect, offering a powerful presence but requiring careful handling and an understanding that affection is not part of the deal. Each type of ESA comes with its own advantages and challenges, so choosing the right one depends on your needs, lifestyle, and, occasionally, your level of risk tolerance.
In this guide, we’ll explore six unconventional, fascinating, and highly unique options for an ESA, breaking down the benefits and challenges of each. Whether you seek calm, curiosity, or an ongoing test of your survival instincts, there’s a perfect ESA for you!
Adopting a Fantail Goldfish as an ESA
“The water does not ask the fish how deep it should be, nor does the fish ask the water why it is never still.”
— Zhurkai Ven of the Umbral Shoals
Ah, the Fantail Goldfish. A creature of mystery, unpredictability, and absolutely no regard for its own survival. You’d think, given the centuries of domestication, that it might have learned something about existing in a way that doesn’t immediately lead to disaster, but no. Here you are, trying to keep one alive, and honestly, I respect the effort. I don’t think it’ll work, but I still respect it.
Tank size? Well, technically, they need space. But also, they’re fish. Will they complain? Not in so many words. Actually, no words. Will they suffer quietly? Absolutely. Some say 20 gallons per fish, but let’s be honest. Who’s actually measuring? It’s all relative. Just fill up a thing with water and hope for the best. Filters? Yeah, I mean, sure, that’d be nice, but also, goldfish are nature’s most determined waste-producing machines. You could have the most advanced filtration system in the world, and they’d still find a way to turn their neighborhood into a swamp. Best to just accept that it’s a losing battle from the start.
Feeding is a fun little experiment in controlled chaos. You want to give them high-quality pellets, but do they want to eat them? Maybe. Maybe not. They’ll eat anything, but also, they’ll eat nothing if they suddenly decide that food is a personal attack. Overfeed them, and they’ll bloat like a tiny, aquatic balloon. Underfeed them, and, well, they’ll just eat whatever else is in the tank—including, potentially, their own dignity. Best approach? Just toss in a leftover cheeseburger scraps and hope they don’t immediately forget how to chew and walk away before you start questioning your own sanity.
Water conditions? Ah, yes, let’s talk about that. pH balance, ammonia levels, nitrates—these are all words that people use. Should you care? Well, let’s put it this way: goldfish do best in clean, stable water, which means yours will somehow exist in the opposite of that no matter what you do. You could spend your days meticulously testing the water, adjusting things to perfection, and they’d still act like they’re on the verge of collapse. Or you could just change some of the water occasionally and pretend everything’s fine. Your choice.
As for tank mates—ha. Ha ha! Good one. You’d think a goldfish, with its slow, floaty existence, would be an easy-going neighbor, but no. Either it’ll be bullied into oblivion or it will become the bully, because nothing in goldfish society makes any sense. If you insist on adding tank mates, go for ones that neither look at them the wrong way nor move fast enough to cause existential dread. Or just accept that your fish might decide it’s an only child and act accordingly.
So, in summary, keep them in water, feed them sometimes, and try not to think too hard about why they’re constantly on the verge of existential collapse. You’ve chosen a pet that exists purely to challenge your expectations of reality. Best of luck with that.
Adopting a Green Tree Python
“The serpent does not climb for the view, but because the earth whispers too loudly.”
— Xiruq T’mav of the Wysnah Cliffs
Another good choice is the Green Tree Python—nature’s disgruntled, sentient shoelace. I mean, sure, it’s a snake, but calling it that is almost too generous. More like a sentient string of muscle with a very limited but highly specific list of grievances. You want to care for one? Well, first off, that’s a bold choice. Not necessarily a good choice, but bold nonetheless.
Let’s talk about their habitat. Now, technically, they need high humidity and something to climb on, but that’s all relative, really. A branch? Maybe. A precariously placed curtain rod? Who’s to say? Some people insist on proper enclosures with fancy thermostats, but honestly, if the snake isn’t actively trying to escape every second of its existence, you’ve already lost its respect. Keep the humidity somewhere between “jungle after a monsoon” and “your bathroom post-shower with a broken exhaust fan,” and that should be close enough. Temperature? Oh, well, warmish but not too warm, coldish but definitely not cold. Think of the comfort level of someone perpetually on the verge of taking off a sweater but never quite doing it.
Feeding? Good luck with that. It’s either going to refuse food for months just to test your patience or suddenly decide that today’s the day to constrict your entire livelihood in a single act of defiance. Mice, rats, birds—sure, those are the typical options. But does the snake know that? No. It follows a feeding schedule dictated entirely by cosmic chaos and personal vendetta. Just dangle something lifeless in front of it and hope for the best. Or, alternatively, let it starve until it dramatically decides it’s ready to participate in existence again.
Handling is a whole different issue. Here’s the thing about Green Tree Pythons: they don’t like you. They don’t like anything. They tolerate the branch they sit on out of sheer necessity, but the minute you insert yourself into the equation, you become an inconvenience. You want to hold it? Great. It wants to bite you. Not in an aggressive way, mind you—more in a “why are you breathing in my direction” kind of way. If you must move it, best do so with the precision of a bomb squad technician who hasn’t slept in three days.
Health concerns? Yeah, sure, they have those. Mysterious scale issues, respiratory infections, and the occasional dramatic hunger strike just to keep you guessing. You’ll want to check for signs of distress, but the problem is, they always look slightly displeased, so distinguishing between normal apathy and medical crisis is more art than science.
So, in short, you now own a snake that views you as nothing more than an unfortunate series of circumstances it must endure. Keep the air vaguely moist, the food mildly available, and your expectations perpetually low, and you might—might—get through this with minimal psychological damage.
Adopting a Deathstalker Scorpion
“The smallest shadow holds the deadliest whisper, and yet fools always step closer to listen.”
— Yrvak D’Toluun of the Ashen Wastes
Next up is the Deathstalker Scorpion. A name that really just says it all, doesn’t it? You’d think that would be enough of a deterrent, but no, some people look at a creature armed with neurotoxic venom and think, “Yes, I’d like that in my home.” So here we are. You want tips? Sure. But let’s not pretend you’ll find them useful.
The first thing is the enclosure. Now, a lot of people will tell you these scorpions need specific temperature ranges, ventilation, and a particular substrate for burrowing. But, honestly, the key is to create an environment where they simultaneously thrive and despise their existence—something between a desert and a prison cell. You’ll want sand, probably, but not too much. Maybe some rocks. Or none. A hiding spot? Who’s to say? Just make sure it’s an area that, when disturbed, makes the scorpion reconsider why it hasn’t stung you yet.
Now, about feeding. Deathstalkers eat insects, theoretically. But will they eat the insects you provide? That’s an ongoing psychological battle between you and the scorpion. Some people say crickets, others say roaches, but the real trick is to drop something in there, back away slowly, and hope you don’t make eye contact. They’ll eat when they feel like it. Or they won’t. Either way, there’s not much you can do except sit in quiet contemplation of your own questionable life choices.
Handling. Ha! That’s a fun word. Technically, yes, you can handle a Deathstalker. In the same way, you can juggle chainsaws while blindfolded. But should you? I mean, I wouldn’t. They’re highly venomous, and the thing about their venom is that it doesn’t care whether you were just gently nudging them or accidentally brushed against their enclosure. They have one response: attack first, ask questions later. You could use tongs to move them, but even then, you’ll want to consider the existential weight of your actions before proceeding.
Water? I mean, yeah, they need it. But also, not really. Some keepers say a small water dish, others say mist the enclosure. Realistically, just allow a general state of dehydration that keeps them resentful but not quite dead, and you’re probably fine.
So now you have everything you need to know. You now own an eight-legged death machine that exists solely to remind you that bad decisions come in many forms. Keep it contained, don’t expect gratitude, and if you get stung—well, I hope your last Google search was “Deathstalker antivenom treatment near me.”
Adopting a Nile Crocodile
“The river does not keep secrets, but the crocodile remembers everything.”
— Thulari Voskan of the Obsidian Delta
Our next affectionate companion is the Nile Crocodile. A choice pet for the individual who has either given up on conventional living arrangements or simply has a deep-rooted desire to test the limits of human survival. A creature that predates most species on Earth, yet somehow, you think you’re in charge. That’s a fun little delusion to hold onto—for now.
First, let’s talk about housing. Technically, they need space. But how much? Well, that’s a debate best left to people who enjoy precise measurements. You want to go small? Sure, but I hope you also enjoy replacing missing limbs. A pond? That’s cute. An Olympic-sized pool? Now we’re getting somewhere. Just remember, whatever enclosure you choose must provide them with enough room to remain unimpressed with you at all times. Land? Water? The balance is tricky, but mostly, they just need the opportunity to pretend they aren’t watching you while they are.
Diet is… well, a thing that happens when they decide it’s time. Technically, they eat meat. But not just any meat. They like their meals to have a certain flair—ideally, something that was alive a concerningly short time ago. Some say whole prey is best, others say you can use prepared meats, but deep down, you know they’d prefer to source their own meals, ideally from whatever happens to be nearest and most inconvenient. Don’t expect gratitude. Don’t expect portion control. Just expect that at some point, you’ll be questioning if the food chain is an actual concept or just something humans made up to feel better about their place in the world.
Now, handling. Ha. No! There is no handling. There is only the constant negotiation of your own safety in their presence. They don’t want cuddles. They don’t want interaction. They want to remind you, every single day, that they are perfectly capable of removing you from existence in less time than it takes you to blink. You can try to move them, but unless you also enjoy the thrilling uncertainty of an unexpected death roll, maybe just let them handle the logistics of their own movement.
Water quality? Sure, it matters. You’d think a creature that thrives in murky, questionable environments wouldn’t be picky, but no. If things aren’t just right, they’ll sulk. And a sulking crocodile is just a crocodile waiting for an excuse to remind you that you’ve made a very large, very toothy mistake.
So, if you’ve decided to own a Nile Crocodile, I can only assume you’ve already made peace with the fact that it does not, in fact, belong to you. You belong to it. Keep the water deep, the food plentiful, and your last will and testament updated. Everything else? Well, you’ll figure it out. Or you won’t. Either way, the crocodile will be just fine.
Adopting a South African Cape Buffalo
“The beast that does not seek trouble still carries thunder in its bones.”
— Malgoth Vren of the Kethari Plains
Your next possibility is the South African Cape Buffalo. Nature’s way of reminding you that some creatures exist purely out of spite. You’d think, being a large herbivore, they’d be docile—perhaps even manageable. But no. They wake up every morning choosing chaos, and if you’re foolish enough to try domesticating one, I can only assume you’ve made peace with the concept of being a footnote in an unfortunate incident report.
Housing? Well, let’s be honest, whatever enclosure you think will hold a Cape Buffalo won’t. These aren’t creatures you contain so much as creatures you temporarily convince to stay put—until they decide otherwise. Fences? Adorable. Walls? Laughable. If a Cape Buffalo wants to leave, it will, and your role in this equation is to simply observe and accept. Give them space. A lot of space. Not because they need it, but because the farther you are from them, the less likely they are to turn your existence into a regrettable learning experience.
Diet, you ask? Sure. They eat grass. That part’s simple. But will they eat the specific grass you provide? That’s a different question entirely. You can try offering high-quality forage, but if they decide today is the day they hate everything about their environment—including you—then no amount of carefully balanced nutrition will make a difference. They may graze peacefully one moment, then charge the nearest object the next, because dietary satisfaction is apparently a concept they find personally offensive.
Handling is where things get particularly exciting. You don’t handle a Cape Buffalo. You negotiate with it. Poorly. Some people think you can train them, but that’s a dangerous assumption built on lies and misplaced optimism. They are not trainable in the way dogs or even cattle are. They recognize no authority, respect no boundaries, and hold grudges longer than any living creature reasonably should. If you ever find yourself within striking distance, just assume you’re already in a bad situation and try to move slowly, if at all.
Watering? Yeah, they drink it. When they want to. In amounts that suit them. You could provide a pristine water source, and they’ll still find a way to stand in it, defile it, and look at you like it’s your fault.
So, if you’re thinking about keeping a Cape Buffalo as an ESA, ask yourself—do I enjoy fear? Do I long for unpredictability? Am I prepared to coexist with a creature that neither appreciates nor acknowledges my efforts? If the answer is yes, then, well, good luck. You’ll need it. If the answer is no, that’s probably the first smart decision you’ve made all day.
Adopting a Komodo Dragon
“The lizard that watches in silence has already decided your fate.”
— Velkoth Thrin of the Sunken Wastes
Finally, we have the Komodo Dragon. A fine choice for those who feel that life simply isn’t unpredictable enough and wish to introduce a prehistoric, bacteria-ridden apex predator into their daily routine. You’d think something that’s basically a reptilian Army tank would be complicated to care for, and you’d be right—but not in any way that actually makes sense or helps you in the slightest.
Let’s start with housing. Or, more accurately, containment. Because you’re not just keeping a lizard, you’re attempting to confine an animal that fully intends to outgrow your expectations and, at some point, your ability to survive an encounter with it. You’ll need space, but defining “space” for a Komodo dragon is like defining “water” for the ocean—it’s never enough. Fences? They climb. Walls? They dig. Locks? They test them. If you think you’ve secured the enclosure, congratulations, you’ve provided a mild inconvenience at best.
Diet? Ha. Komodos eat meat. That’s the easy part. The hard part is understanding that they don’t so much consume their meals as they conquer them. Some say whole prey is best, others say large chunks of meat will do, but what they don’t tell you is that the Komodo Dragon fundamentally does not care. They’ll swallow something far too large, then spend the next several hours regretting it while looking for something else to eat. Live prey? Sure, if you enjoy watching the slow, inevitable demise of whatever you foolishly introduced into their domain. They bite, they wait, and then, when the infection sets in—well, that’s not your problem anymore, is it?
Handling? No. There is no handling. You are not training it, you are not bonding with it, and you certainly are not picking it up unless you’re actively seeking out new and exciting ways to lose parts of yourself. It doesn’t care if you raised it from a hatchling. It will not be tamed. If anything, it simply sees you as part of the environment—an environment it may eventually decide to test for weaknesses.
Water? Sure, they drink it. Sometimes they sit in it. If the mood strikes, they may defile it in ways that will make you challenge your imagination. You can try keeping it fresh, but in the grand hierarchy of their priorities, water cleanliness is somewhere between “irrelevant” and “actively being sabotaged.”
So, if you think owning a Komodo Dragon is a good idea, just know that you’re essentially caring for a sentient, land-based nightmare that doesn’t care about your existence in the slightest. Keep it contained, keep it fed, and keep a safe distance. Or don’t. The Komodo Dragon will sort it out for you.
And just like that, you’re ready to choose the perfect Emotional Support Animal! Whether you prefer a serene, low-maintenance companion, a stunning but socially distant beauty, or the adrenaline rush of a pet that keeps you running for safety, there’s an option for everyone. Some will soothe your soul, others will test your patience, and a few might make you question your life choices entirely—but hey, that’s part of the fun! Pick wisely, embrace their quirks, and enjoy the wild, wacky world of ESAs. Just remember: some pets love you, and some simply let you live!
