Being the award-winning author of several wildlife mystery publications, I receive copious amounts of email submissions for Outdoor Retort-worthy material.  I’m a man of skepticism and have a top-notch team of trained professionals to help me do the dirty work.  We know how to do our homework around here.  With that in mind, this feature is the most compelling evidence I’ve personally received as to the Legend of the Chupacabra.   The Tortilla Retort Team will have to be on top of our game for this matter.  We’ll have to try and get in touch with Papadoc before he gets in touch with J&B.  I’m guessing noon will be sufficient.  I’ve personally witnessed him at work with a scalpel around 4:00 and his mentor once ran over a sheep with a pickup as a means of assuring a safe birth.  And got away with it.  My dad’s on the tractor all week, so will probably be unavailable.  However, come to think of it, he does his best work on the phone, which he possesses, and time will not be of the issue in his case.  Our ace in the hole is a good friend of mine and high school classmate, who is now one of the leading wildlife biologist in Texas.  That may not be true, but you’re not going to convince me otherwise.  This guy’s been exterminating beavers in East Texas for the last 3 years, so catching him with access to a computer can be difficult at times.  He prefers to dwell among his own.  A real life Beaver Hunter.  And that’s exactly what his cap said at our 10 year reunion.  That part, I’m not making up.  No shit. 

The Perp.

This went down in my backyard of Richardson, TX, and if anyone around here thinks I’m not crazy enough to track these folks down and go knock on their door, then you don’t know me very well.  You’ll be surprised at how much these people are willing to talk sometimes.  If not, Papadoc can Fedex the tranqus and I’ll rent a van.  You can read the whole story here, but recommend the abridged version for the shallow folk out there. 

CNN identified the mysterious animal as a chupacabra, the “bigfoot” of Latino culture. The chupacabra is real. In fact, I think my husband’s grandfather even had one as a pet.

I knew this was about to get good after the 2nd paragraph.

“There’s this thing, maybe an animal in the yard. You gotta see it,” exclaimed the Trophy Husband. “It’s like a dog. Or a pig. Or maybe a kangaroo. I’m not sure.”

The Horror…..The Horror…..

Enter Juan, our family’s handyman. Originally from Mexico, Juan is my trusty sidekick. He and I were headed out to the car later that afternoon.  After a day’s work, he was dusty and exhausted. I was in Martha Stewart mode., pre-conviction. That night, I planned hot glue some stuff on some other stuff and faux finish anything I could get my hands on.

I haven’t watched TV in over 2 weeks, but this Skinemax flick was still playing when I was.

I unlocked my car with the remote, and caught a glimpse of something out of my peripheral vision. I wasn’t sure what it was.  It could have been a stray dog, or a coyote, but it was really strange looking. Juan, saw it, too, and frantically tugged the door handle of my car. He leapt with undue haste into the front seat and locked the doors. I stood momentarily, captivated by the creature. Besides, I was locked out.

Now, I don’t want any derogatory remarks about Mexicans here.  I won’t tolerate it.

I won’t go into detail here, but let’s just say with the full frontal view I had, whatever it was, was a male, and leave it at that.  I weighed my options. I realized I was vulnerable to attack. Juan pounded the windshield and dashboard…..

There are a lot of different directions I could go here.   I had to read those 4 sentences used consecutively twice, just to assure I was reading it right.

Once I was safely in the car, Juan spoke in low guttural Spanish, “Chupacabra.” He made the sign of the cross.

I was holding together pretty well until this part.  I keep looking over my shoulder as I type now.

As I drove Juan home, he told me the legend of the chupacabra. It means “goat sucker.” It’s a vicious animal that drains the blood from its prey. The chupacabra strikes fear into those who dare to cross the border at night without a coyote, as an escort. I took Juan’s tale with a grain of salt. After all, I knew from time to time, while on a border crossing excursion, he was prone to the peyote. I decided to prove Juan wrong.

I think this was a Scooby Doo episode. 

Our pillow talk drifted. “You know,” he chuckled, “my grandfather had this animal. This was way back before my mother was even born, and he used to charge money for people to see it, like a side show act. It had some kind of weird name. My Aunt Pat knows all about it. The way she describes it, it sounds like, you know, this chupacabra thing in the yard.”

It’s getting pretty thick now.

Skeptically, I replied, “This proves nothing. Everyone knows Wikipedia is completely unreliable. This is ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well, Aunt Pat has recordings of my grandfather talking about this animal. We should call her tomorrow,” he said with conviction. Aunt Pat is the family historian, and the keeper of skeletons in the closet. She lives across the border, the one with Oklahoma. Not Mexico.

Fuck, what’s the difference.  Shit is starting to add up now.

The next morning, I told Juan to forget about this chupacabra nonsense. We were in a time crunch, because I was expecting company. A German exchange student was arriving on the 23rd of August, and we didn’t have time for a mythical creature. I was focused on business as usual.  Juan busied himself upstairs.

I have to credit the writer.  She does an outstanding job of character introduction throughout the piece.  And right in the middle of it, she slips in a German exchange student on us. 

Juan broke the stillness by crossing himself again. In that same low tone from the day before, he warned, “The chupacabra es muy mala.”

I can’t even keep a straight face and read that.  Stand alone gold right there.

 I called Aunt Pat.  I didn’t even say howdy, I just launched into a series of who, what, where, when, and how questions. I asked, “So, Pat, I was wondering about this animal your father used to have?” I barely finished the last sentence, in a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “Oh, dear. Yes. The honosificavilitodinativuf.  Who wants to know?”

I’m guessing Aunt Pat is the purveyor of a bait shop/tarot card reading/noodling guide service outfit on the North Shore of the Red somebouts.  My mental picture is akin to Bent’s Fort circa 1874.  Probably still complete with peyoted half-breeds living in teepees around the premises. 

Aunt Pat spoke in an awed tone. Her inflection ebbed and flowed, “It had the eyes of an eagle, the face of a Javelina hog, skin like a man, quills like a porcupine. It could sit upright and fly. I never saw it but daddy said it could stare down a bear. It was a vegetarian.” She sounded like a midway barker, “It was all well and good until it got the urge.”

I can’t fucking breathe right now, man.

The urge to what?” I queried.

“It savored blood. Daddy said it came from South America. He kept it in a cage. He used to take it around, all over Texas and Oklahoma after cotton season. That way the people, they had money. He charged a nickel, or maybe it was a dime to see it. Time’s was tough back then.”

This can’t be real.

“Well, you’ll just have to listen to the tapes. I’ll send ‘em down to you,” she promised. “Daddy told me this, whatever it was, was a mix of at least 9 different species. You’ll just have to listen to the tapes. He was a Pentecostal,” she reminded me. “Every word out of his mouth might as well’ve been the Lord’s own.”

This thing writes itself.  No need for me to fuck it up.

Finally, Pop told the story of the animal, the honosificavilitodinativuf. He even spelled it, twice. Allow me to summarize: almost a hundred years ago, he bought an unusual animal from a South American man. He paid $8,000 for it, which is a lot of money now, so just imagine how much it was a century ago. Pop toured towns with cotton gins after harvest to recoup his investment. After a few years, he made his money back, and then some. He eventually sold the animal to another man, who left the cage outside during winter. The honosificavilitodinativuf died. It was as if Pop had a bond with this animal. This, I didn’t understand.

You’re not the only one, Sweet-tits. 

His voice was earnest, and he was telling the truth. I could tell. Even though he was from Oklahoma, I believe him.

I’ve said this to myself many a time, and typically something bad happens right after that.

The German girl arrived on August 23rd. As she unpacked, she remarked how much she loved the new bathroom. “It’s like Paris!” she exclaimed. I thought: mission accomplished. That evening, she informed us that she was an expert on all things Texan, as a friend from the same village in northwest Germany spent a year in Texas, near Houston. Texas has a lot of snakes, she told us, and everyone carries a gun to kill them. According to her, we Texans walk around just shooting and killing animals on a regular basis. I informed her that was not correct.

Oh, little does she know.

The following day, Sunday, we were enjoying lunch after church. It was then I saw it through the dining room windows. Like Miss Texas, the chupacabra, honosificavilitodinativuf, or whatever you want to call it, strutted down my driveway and headed up the cul-de-sac toward the main road. 

I was chewing, but I managed to choke, “CHUPACABRA!”

Zoiks!!!

The Trophy Husband leapt up and looked. “Oh. My. Gosh.” My child, who I call The Spawn, ran to fetch her camera.
The German also peered out the windows. She noted plaintively, “Germany does not have this animal.” She also grabbed her camera.

You have to give her credit.  This gal has a slick memory in the heat of battle.

“I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys and handbag. The Trophy Husband asked, “What, I mean, er- where’re you going?”  I swaggered out toward my trusty steed.  The Spawn, the German, and I gave chase in my Mercedes.  It wasn’t hard.  We just had to follow our noses.  That thing smells terrible.

The hunt is on.

There, lurking in the cool shade was the chupacabra. Or honosificavilitodinativuf.  The girls both rolled down their windows and were taping and snapping away with their cameras at the mysterious animal. Its eyes locked on me again. It was sinister. I got the ominous feeling that it recognized me. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. In a half-second, it was gone.

I read this shit in Reader’s Digest in 9th grade at the orthodontist.

In a half-second it went from standing still in that spot to a place about 10 feet away. Smack dab in the middle of a grove of shrubs. I don’t care how crazy I sound. I told you I was going to tell the truth. The truth is, the chupacabra can fly.

Magical powers.  What next?  Sucking the heads off common house pets?

We heard a horrific sound. The bushes rustled, and we saw fur flying. It had a cat in its menacing clutches.

I told you something bad typically happens after I say that to myself.

In second grade, I opted to be a Campfire Girl instead of a Girl Scout. It’s at times like this, I regret my decision.
I flung open my car door, and grabbed my handbag. I paused for a minute to formulate a plan. My daughter shot me a pleading look, and I saw the German, sitting there just as cool as a cucumber, taping this whole affair.

That’s not the first time that’s been said about a German documentarian. 

I said, “Yes, this is Amanda Tackett. I would like to report a chupacabra at the intersection of Waterview and Northlake.”

Right about here.  Try to follow this:

Mr. Animal Control laughed at me, “Lady,” he nodded, “that’s a coyote.”

Mr. Lexus stepped forward to defend my honor. “I’m gonna have to agree with her. It’s not a coyote.”

“What,” Mr. Animal Control asked, “do you want me to do?”

In unison, we responded, “KILL IT.”

The Spawn nodded in agreement, but the German whimpered, “We should not kill an innocent animal.”  I told her to get in the car and keep filming.

This is like trying to decipher a Hunter S. Thompson novel.

Mr. Animal Control explained the city would not allow him to slay the beast. The city had a capture and 
contain ordinance.  Upon hearing that, Mr. Lexus pulled me aside. “Look, I say we do it. We kill it.” He decided the most humane death for the beast was death by luxury car. We were going to ram it with either his LS400 or my E350. I have full coverage insurance, so I was on board.

The City is obviously coordinated by Ruffin McNeill.  I wasn’t aware Chupacabra coverage was standard.  That would have been good information to know a long time ago.

We retreated to our vehicles and for another 30 minutes or so, we played out a rodeo of sorts. We moved the chupacabra down an alley, up a side street, and back again. We tried to trap it, but like I said before, the chupacabra had the advantage of flight. It also didn’t help that Mr. Animal Control was tailing us in his boxy truck, or that the German was caterwauling in my backseat.

cat·er·waul

intr.v. cat·er·wauled, cat·er·waul·ing, cat·er·wauls

 

And, Mr. Animal Control is trying to convince me he doesn’t know how to shakedown this part of town.

The moment was almost too much for Mr. Lexus. With a trembling lip, barely audible, he lamented, “How many more calicos and dachshunds have to die?”

It’s been over a decade since calicos have seen a threat to this degree. 

Meanwhile, my mind raced. I replayed the tapes of Pop’s carnival pet, and all the people lined up around the block to see it. My heart twanged thinking of the poor creature dying cold and alone in a cage. I thought about the stories and descriptions online, the myth, and hype of the news story. Somehow, I made a mental leap. I’ve been cornered like this before. A bad first marriage, debt, medical problems, dead-end jobs, and a whole list of woulda, coulda, and shouldas. The reality was I’ve felt like the chupacabra more than once. The animal’s intent gaze pierced me.
There was this odd moment where I just couldn’t do it. Something inside me changed.

I think there’s a little Chupacabra in all of us.

 I lunged toward the animal. “Get. Go on now. Scram,” I hissed at it. I tossed a rock at it. I directed my next comments to the Trophy Husband, “Hold your fire.”

It’s all of a sudden like a Jimmy Stewart movie or something.

We climbed back into our respective vehicles. The Spawn’s face streaked with tears. As we passed the bridge headed home, the German spoke, “This is just like the movies about Texas. Tell me, will we hunt in Richardson each Sunday? I thought you said Texans do not kill animals in residential areas.”

“Today was special,” I exhaled, “and we didn’t kill it.”

I forgot about that German chick.  I bet she was tripped out.  First day in America.  I’ll be damned.  Try explaining that one to your parents in Berlin via translation.  I don’t want to ruin this at the end, so I’ll just leave this last little passage for all of us to dwell on:

It turned and loped away maybe 50 feet, and stopped. The chupacabra turned slowly, and looked at me. 
 I picked up a fallen twig from a tree and raked it across the fence, “You won’t be so lucky next time. I was a Campfire Girl.”