Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Onions,” he whimpered. “That banshee poisoned me!”

Back at the house, Maximilian patrolled the perimeter of his yard. It was his yard. He knew it, his master knew it, the stinky one knew it, and the postman knew it. Even the stuck-up poodle that lived down the block knew it, too. She’s nothing but a conceited bitch , Max thought as he sniffed the ornamental iron fence that garrisoned his property. The French bulldog had a smooth, solid white coat and a snub black nose and short tail. His bat-like ears seemed oddly too big for his flat, square head, as did the wide tongue that protruded from his mouth as he panted. It’s my yard, and my yard alone , Max thought as he continued his inspection.

Some might think of think of him as a dog of leisure, a lap dog meant solely for companionship, just a silly four-legged court jester for his master’s entertainment, but they would be wrong. He was an adventurer, an explorer, and a mini-backyard warrior cloaked in alabaster fur. His name, Maximilian, was Latin for “the greatest,” and it fit the courageous little dog perfectly. They don’t name emperors Buddy or saints Rover , the muscular little dog thought as he lifted his hind leg to mark the fence. They name them Maximilian!

Most importantly, he was a world-class excavator, a digging machine of epic renown. His front paws clawed in fury at the grass and dirt, dredging open a shallow hole that he promptly buried his face into, his short, rapid snuffles muffled by the soft dirt.

Everything seems good here , Max thought, as an overwhelming urge to lick his crotch completely engulfed him. That’s better. He wrapped up the necessary duty and pranced to the next section of fence, his identification and vaccination tags jangling from his red leather collar as he bounced along.

His only fear was water. He hated puddles. Couldn’t stand them. On walks with Master after a storm, the journey lasted twice as long, as he had to carefully circumnavigate the awful pools of rainwater.

He had known his tall white-haired master his entire life. He couldn’t remember anyone before him. Then, all of a sudden, the lady and the stinky one in the bathrobe moved into the house. He liked the lady. She fed him tasty snacks when the master wasn’t looking and scratched his belly with her fingernails just the way he liked it and was the only one who called him Maxi. He had loved her very much, but not as much as Master. Then, all of a sudden, she was gone, leaving him alone with just Master and the stinky one. He didn’t like the stinky one. He never gave him snacks and even yelled at him when he tried to enter his room. Fortunately, the stinky one spent most of his time in his room, leaving Max free rein of the house with Master.

Suddenly, Max spotted something in the back corner of the yard. The small mound of dry dirt in the ocean of green grass was definitely out of place. It just didn’t seem right to him as he trotted over and sniffed the anthill-like pile of dirt. No, he definitely didn’t remember doing this. Puzzled, he cocked his head sideways.

Max immediately set to work, burrowing a hole out of the mound with his stubby front paws. His claws evacuated the soft soil back between his hind legs. Sufficiently satisfied with its depth, he jammed his squat face into the depression and sniffed. Instantly, he launched himself backward several feet, landing with his head low to the ground and haunches raised. His little tail pointed straight up and quivered with excitement. Max enthusiastically barked twice, quickly spun around in a circle, and immediately resumed his head-down, tail-up pose. Slowly he inched his body toward the hole and hesitantly took another sniff. He launched himself again, this time bouncing up and down on his short but powerful front legs once he landed.

It’s definitely a mole , Max thought as he carefully approached the shallow pit for a second time. Max would not share his yard with anything, especially a mole. He was the only one who dug here! Flashing red rage filled his canine brain.

Max attacked the hole with violent aplomb this time. His paws were a blur, a whirlwind of nonstop activity. Dirt rooster-tailed out behind him like wood from a chipper. Quickly he switched to the opposite side of the hole and continued his frenzied mining. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop if he wanted. The scent of the creature had taken him over. It was intoxicating. Dig faster , the gallant little dog frantically thought. I can’t let it get away.

A foot beneath the concave depression, a mole sensed something was very wrong. The small, grey subterranean creature’s skin-covered eyes could barely tell night from day, but the pink nose at the end of its pointy snout warned him that something from above the roots of the grass was coming. Slowly, the mole used its broad front paws to push itself back into its tunnel, sluggishly moving deeper and deeper into its labyrinth-like lair.

Max continued his spastic burrowing, the front half of his body now swallowed up by the ever widening hole. Abruptly, Max stopped his frenzied digging. Burying his nose into the tunnel, he took a series of quick sniffs. The infernal rodent smell was fading. A rattling growl emanated from the little dog’s throat, followed by a sharp bark, as if to make sure the mole knew who it was dealing with and how unwelcome its presence was.

Hopping out of the hole, Max shook himself free of dirt and grass and lay down on the soft lawn beside his creation. Rubbing his face on his paws, he cleaned his wrinkly face.

Satisfied that his backyard was once again safe, Max scampered over to a small limb that had fallen overnight from one of the large oak trees that canopied the backyard. The branch weighed as much as Max and was nearly four times as long. Max took the fallen bough in his mouth and pulled. The little dog strained to move the branch across the yard. After dragging his awkward burden across the yard and next to the back door of the house, he set it down. Placing his front paws on top of his possession, he attempted to chew off one end.

Suddenly, Max heard the sound of the front gate being opened. Dropping his newly found toy, he scampered quickly around the side of the house and crouched down in the shadow of the bushes next to the front porch. Yes, it was the lady with the hair.

Aunt Polly struggled to push the gate closed with her ample backside as she clung to the two overloaded sacks of groceries in her arms. The short, heavily bosomed woman wearing a floral dress was built almost squarely, nearly as wide as she was tall. She wore a large, floppy white hat with a yellow flower tucked into the band. Beneath the wide brim, chaotic curls of bright reddish-orange hair exploded in all directions. She had stubby legs and chubby ankles that seemed to strain the tan stockings she wore. Her feet were crammed into white high-heeled shoes a half size too small. The stiletto heels in back waged a valiant battle to keep her aloft. Aunt Polly teetered back and forth in the heels, struggling to balance her unwieldy load and navigate the treacherous walkway to the front steps.

Just wait for her , Max thought. Just a little farther, and she’s all yours. The Frenchie was small, but his predatory instincts passed down genetically from wolves and jackals burned like fire within him.

Aunt Polly breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the first of the front porch stairs. Then the bushes exploded. A quick succession of high-pitched barks and yaps filled her ears, causing her to lose her balance once again. Max tore through the bushes and launched himself into the air at the lady with the crazy hair. Barking wildly, Max landed on his hind legs and leaned his full weight into the woman with his muddy front paws planted squarely on her pretty dress.