Chupacabra. Chu-pa-ca-bra. Other than feeling the occasional, inexplicable need to utter the word, I never gave much thought to the phenomenon known as the chupacabra. But then an odd convergence got me thinking about this mysterious beastie.
Yes, there was the recent news out of Hood County: two separate sightings of hairless canines, which many liken to the folklorish creatures from south of the border. But just about the same time those stories were breaking, I made the acquaintance of Nick Redfern, a British-born writer who lives in Arlington.
Nick chases monsters.
As an expert on the paranormal world, his résumé is packed to the gills with book and magazine articles -- not to mention TV appearances on shows like the Syfy Channel's Proof Positive, the National Geographic's Paranatural and History Channel's Monster Quest and UFO Hunters.
He most recently co-authored Monsters of Texas, a book that explores some of the Lone Star State's weird phenomena: feathered batmen, werewolves and the Texas equivalent of the Loch Ness Monster.
There's a whole chapter devoted to chupacabras.
I wanted to talk with Redfern about the reasons for my growing, oddball fascination with this creature, but on the way there, I got a wild and wonderful earful of history about the Texas chupacabra.
"It derived from this weird creature that popped up out of the blue on the island of Puerto Rico, in the early- to mid-1990s," says Redfern. who has been on several expeditions to Puerto Rico looking for the "original" chupacabra.
Typically on an investigation like that, he'll uncover a lot of hoaxes and misidentification. Not so this time.
"I actually do think the Puerto Rican reports are based around some genuinely anomalous animals," Redfern says. "I don't know what they are, but they're often described as bipedal, looking kind of like a vicious monkey."
The Puerto Rican reports said the creatures were leaving blood-drained farm animals. "Farmers were talking about waking up and finding animals dead on the ground and puncture wounds in their neck -- but not torn apart, which you really would expect in a wild animal."
And that deliciously creepy-sounding term "chupacabra"? Latin for goat-sucker.
In 2004, some Texas ranchers near San Antonio began reporting that their chickens, goats and other farm animals were being punctured, and drained of their blood. "And somebody said: 'That sounds like the chupacabra of Puerto Rico,' and the next thing you know ...."
The irresistible, media-ready name catapulted its way splat into pop culture.
Never mind that the Texas creature is something totally different than its blood-draining Puerto Rican counterpart. (DNA tests seem to conclude that the Hood County animals are canine -- coyotes.)
Don't get me wrong: I sure as shoot don't want to run into one of these things -- especially when I'm out walking my dog. So then why does another part of me feel so titillated by tales of this creature?
Redfern confirmed my own theory.
Chupacabras and yeti and Loch Ness monsters and their ilk all serve a human psychological need. Especially in today's culture -- much of which has become dominated by a sterile, reality TV-drenched, fused-to-the-Internet and don't-dare-venture-outside ethos.
Our world has been drained of so much mystery.
"So when we hear these stories -- regardless of whether there's any truth to these creatures -- I think that deep down psychologically, people have an affinity for spooky stories, and the idea that there are weird creatures lurking in the woods," Redfern says. "It brings out a primal instinct in us -- the idea that: 'Wow, maybe the world isn't quite so known as we thought it was.'"
Exactly. So thank you, Mr. Chupacabra, for bringing a little wonder back to the world.
Just please stay the bleep out of my yard.
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