La Chupacabra

La Chupacabra

I’ve been called the goatsucker. Or worse.

That’s because people can’t explain historic reports of hundreds of goats left to bleed to death in Puerto Rico, Mexico and down into Central and South America in the 1990s. The goats on private farms had no slash wounds, no bodies ripped to shreds, nothing that looked like they were attacked by an animal with a mouth full of vicious teeth. Instead, the animals that were killed had two small holes on their necks, too regular to have been made by hand. Of course, then I became linked to vampires. Sheesh. Necropsies performed on most of them never proved that they were bled dry. Hey, I don’t even like goat meat.

What gets me is the description of so-called “eyewitnesses.” The first report of my sighting came from some young girl and her mom in Puerto Rico in 1995. They described me as a sort of menacing lizard with leathery, scaly greenish skin that hops on two feet. I don’t even know how to hop. And the spikes down my head and back? Turns out they had just seen a new sci-fi movie made in Hollywood. What was it? Oh yeah Species. I had to admit, it was kind of amazing they used to describe me to reporters – exactly like the human-turned-alien creature from the movie named Sil. But hey, I’m most definitely not female. And I walk on all fours. Ha.

As the stories about me grew more exaggerated, I finally was dubbed “La Cupacabra,” a label that translates into “goat sucker,” so that’s what stuck.

Luckily, I guess, my reputation preceded me into Latin America, where people didn’t buy into the alien description. There, I became a more acceptable dog- or coyote-like creature. Still not very attractive, I was described as mostly hairless, with a sharp spinal ridge, bulging eye sockets, protruding fangs and sharp claws.

That’s more like it.

Unfortunately, I guess, while my legend was exploding, I did nurture a tendency to visit people in their dreams.

I remember one little girl, Luisa, who lived in El Paso, Texas. Back then, I crossed the border as easily as migrants, using welcoming bridges to pass freely between the U.S. and Mexico. In her nightmares, I came to her seeking blood to gorge upon and secrets to share in the dark of night. As she grew, my nightly visits began to fade, becoming cloudy memories. Eventually, my imagined evil forays disappeared even from international conversation, relegated to a fictitious fable handed down from one creative storyteller to the next.

I never was the monster they made me out to be. Or even a rabid mangy dog. Lots of researchers studied me for years, interviewed witnesses and examined carcasses in multiple countries. They finally discovered I was most probably a lonesome coyote that had the misfortune to tangle with a parasite called scabies. Yeah, the same unwelcome parasitic mite that causes itching and rashes in you humans. In my case, these parasites left me with scattered patches of fur, thickened skin, and a rank odor.

But I wasn’t always lonesome. My pack was a rather large one with new offspring annually and older ones who wanted to stick around. But there can be only one Alpha male, you know. And, well, the weaker I got, the less use I was to the pack. I had a hard time hunting food. I couldn’t catch my normal prey, like rabbits or deer, so I tried a few goats just to feed the family. They aren’t as fast, but even then, I couldn’t win. Most of the goats got away, but I guess they might have died later from internal bleeding or maybe shock.

I’m not a boogeyman. But the bigger the mess I made trying to protect my family and help my pack survive, the wider the reputation of the malicious Chupacabra spread.

About that time, I met a kid named Alex who finally understood me. Turns out he was getting bullied in his hometown so he went to visit relatives in Mexico. We met accidentally one night when he was sitting alone on the porch. As I crept toward him, he held out his hand. He wasn’t afraid.

I kinda hate to admit it, but we had so much in common, this human and me. Misinterpreted from the get-go and never given a chance, people could not see past their prejudices to appreciate who and what we were.

They even made a movie about it. They shortened my name to Chupa and even defanged me. I wasn’t too happy about the wings and feathers they added to my body, but at least I had hair. Someone even made cuddly, fluffy Chupa creatures for kids and they sold like hotcakes! But in the end, just like in the movie, Alex encouraged me to go back to my pack to live in peace.

Now, as my body unearths new aches on a circadian rhythm and I fend off latent disease with increased vigor, I’m crossing borders once again. I’m exhausted in my evening exploits searching for innocent grazing victims.

I don’t hunt anymore. Not really. All those goats are safe from me now I guess. Sometimes I sink into heavy dreams and I see Luisa again, only now she's all grown up and even has a sleeping baby nestled in her arms. In my dream, she is smiling at me. I choose to believe it is forgiveness. Or maybe it’s just forgetfulness. Sometimes they’re the same thing.

Moaning softly in my decline, I sleep languidly by the river, feasting on fruit that passes easily through toothless lips. And sometimes, in the rarest moments, I feel something like pride. I survived this world, even when I was fighting battles alone. And after going through all I went through, I changed.

There's something to be said for creatures like me - born of misunderstanding and hysteria. I didn’t ask for this life. I didn’t ask to be woven into children’s nightmares. But I guess everyone needs something to blame when the goats die, when the blood runs out, when there is no answer to the questions everyone asks.

I think, in the end, even monsters deserve a rest. The river calls to me now, low and murmuring, its voice like an old friend. Tomorrow I’ll amble along its loamy banks, headed south again. Maybe there’s still something left to see.

Or maybe it’s just time to sleep. Forever.