My Goat is Missing!

A fictional encounter with the legendary Chupacabra

Written by Melton Carr

Estimated reading time: 8 minutes

Myth or Truth?

My name is Raymond Jordan II. People call me "RJ2." For the past eleven years, I have worked in Latin American countries as a USDA Imported Foods Inspector. I speak enough Spanish to get by, though I struggle with some regional dialects. The people of South America and their unusual cultures have always intrigued me.

Here in Panama, the locals talk about a weird, hairless creature with spines running along its back and large, dagger-like teeth. Farmers say the ugly canine attacks their livestock, favoring goats. The creature, they say, sucks only a goat's blood, never consuming its flesh or organs.

Chapter One — See for Myself

The first time I heard the word Chupacabra was two years ago, in 2019. I was on assignment with the federal government, investigating the illegal importation of bananas that had bypassed required USDA inspections. At the time, we were concerned about the Pantropical Huntsman Spider, which was arriving in America hidden in banana boxes and escaping notice by local shippers in Panama. The longshoremen on the docks talked about a critter they considered far worse than that spider.

The beast was known as the Chupacabra.

The Chupacabra is a legendary creature found in the folklore of many parts of the Americas. It was first reported in Puerto Rico. Its name comes from its supposed habit of attacking and drinking the blood of livestock, especially goats. Chupacabra translates roughly to "goat-sucker."

My driver, a good fellow I nicknamed "Taco," told me he had seen one of these mysterious monsters lurking around his brother's goat pen several weeks earlier. Taco was visibly nervous as he told me his story, and I believed him. I told him I wanted to see one of the creatures for myself. Taco thought I had lost my mind. Maybe I had. I asked whether he would take me to his brother's farm one evening after work. Reluctantly, he agreed to take me to the spot where he had seen the monster. I was excited and, at the same time, more than a little nervous. I wondered whether my curiosity might get me into trouble.

Chapter Two — Goat Makes a Delicious Meal

Three days ago, after work and just before dark, Taco and I drove to his brother's farm near the small village of Muerto. It was raining steadily. Of course, it is always raining in Panama. The muddy road climbing into the mountains was slick and sloppy, and a veil of afternoon rain clouds hung over the surrounding peaks. They reminded me of the San Francisco Bay Area back in the States, though this was considerably spookier. As we slushed along, I realized that without a four-wheel-drive vehicle, it would be damn-near impossible to get anywhere outside the city's infrastructure. Taco's 2018 Range Rover had no trouble with the muck.

The jungle drive was pitch-black. We slid often and spun our wheels more than a few times while climbing the steep grade. When we finally reached his brother's farm, it was not all that big, maybe four or five acres by my guess. His brother's goats were gathered near the pigpen, safely secured from predators. They were eating pig feed that had been scattered on the ground outside the fence. A cold chill ran down my spine as I remembered the men on the docks telling me how the Chupacabra preferred sucking the blood from goats. Was I still wanting to see this monster? I was still up for the challenge, but I was a good deal more nervous now.

As we pulled up to the wood-plank, tin-roof farmhouse, smoke from the cookstove drifted across the porch and into my nostrils. Something good was cooking inside. Taco's brother met us on the porch. He had been expecting us; Taco had called soon after I mentioned wanting to see one of the strange predators. He had set up this chase, and he was eager to witness the mysterious beast again.

Taco's brother invited us inside and offered me a cold local beer called Balboa. With its 4.8 percent alcohol content, I knew one would be enough to give me a buzz. "Sounds good to me," I said.

We stood for a few minutes, staring into the dark jungle. Somewhere out there, I thought, the Chupacabra might be listening and waiting to put its eyes on me. Taco's brother's wife came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and introduced herself. She hugged Taco, gave him a kiss, and asked us to join them for dinner. Of course, we gladly accepted.

The house was full of wonderful cooking aromas, and I was hungry. It turned out that she had prepared one of my favorite Panamanian dishes: cabrito, with white rice and steamed vegetables. "How strange," I thought. "Here we are getting ready to search for a vicious, goat-blood-sucking predator, and we are also preparing to dine on goat meat ourselves."

"It sure is nice of you, ma'am, to think of feeding us like this. It smells great." I meant every word. As she turned toward the kitchen, she joked, "No problem. Who knows? This might be your last supper." She made the Catholic sign of the cross over her chest. We all laughed, though I hoped she was not prophesying my fate.

After dinner, Taco's brother, Roberto, volunteered to show us the exact spot where he had seen the Chupacabra. Roberto said his dog had alerted him when the animal came onto the property. The sighting had happened on a similar evening, a little after eight, when the night creatures were calling in their own distinct voices. Some screeched. Some howled. The cacophony of jungle noises gave me plenty of reason to reconsider our dangerous quest, but the three of us, with Roberto's dog, pushed on.

"Wait. Let's stop here for a moment," Roberto cautioned.

Chills immediately crept down my back. I asked myself whether this was really a good idea. As Roberto had suggested, we hesitated. We were close to the same place where he had seen the beast before.

"It's okay. We can go on," he said.

I felt like tiptoeing, trying to be extra quiet, but then I thought that would be silly. I followed closely behind my more courageous guides. Cabrito, I reminded myself, is young goat meat baked into a stew with purple onion, eggplant, and tasty native Latin American spices. Goat makes a delicious meal.

Chapter Three — My Chupacabra Was Real

My Canon SX540 camera hung around my neck. I had brought it in case I got the chance to snap a quick photo of the animal. I planned to sell proof of the Chupacabra's existence to a stock-photo company or, if I was lucky, to one of the major television networks. Roberto and Taco walked ahead of me, but Roberto's dog lagged behind, staying close to my heels. Why was it not out front, the way hunting dogs usually are? Maybe it was wary of whatever might be lurking ahead, I thought.

A small freshwater creek lay in front of us. Roberto crossed first, showing us it was shallow. My boots were not waterproof, and my socks got wet. I was soaked from head to toe. The mountain mist felt like a tropical shower.

"¡Silencioso! ¡Callado! ¡Oigo algo!" Roberto held up his hand for us to stop.

"What is it?" I asked Taco.

"My brother said stop. He heard something just ahead." I froze.

Then I heard it too. A low growl came from the right side of the path, no more than thirty or forty feet away. Whatever it was, it was ugly, all right, and it did not sound happy to know we were so close.

"Maybe we should leave it alone, huh, guys? I really don't have to do this," I pleaded.

The two brothers continued cautiously, motioning for me to stay close. No problem. I was right there, hanging on to Roberto's shirttail. Then I noticed that the dog was no longer behind me. Where had he gone? He had not made a sound. Had he turned back? Had he gone into the brush toward the growl? Or had something snatched him from us? It was all getting too weird.

I wanted to call to the men, but the distance between us had grown. My worry for the dog, and their attention to the tracking, had allowed us to become separated. Then a thud in the dark brush behind me made me freeze in my boot prints. Something heavy had jumped into the path behind me. It was too dark to see, and the dense brush hid whatever stood between me and my escape. I wanted to holler for the men but could not. I knew I should not, for fear this thing would seize the perfect moment to attack while I was alone. So I stood petrified, too scared to move. My heart pounded in my throat. I had no weapon and no way to protect myself. I could only stand rigid and hope it was nothing.

There it was again, that bloody growl. Then something heavy hit the ground. What was this thing? Was it stalking me? If only I could see it and know how far away it was.

Then I saw it!

What I saw was on all fours, drooling, hairy, snarling, and coming right toward me. It was closing the distance, now less than fifty feet away. Was it the Chupacabra, the hideous beast I had come to see? Dark clouds opened just long enough for moonlight to trace its outline. The beast was skin and bones, emaciated. Its ridged back revealed the jagged contour of its spine. It had large, rounded ears and a powerful, muscular jaw that could easily let its big teeth bite through a large leg bone.

Yes, this was the beast I had come to see.

I wanted proof. Now that I was actually looking at it, I wanted just one photograph. Slowly, I raised my camera to my cheek. The light-sensitive lens would let me photograph the thing in almost total darkness. My finger searched for the shutter-release button. Then, in less than an instant, the Chupacabra was gone. Just a blur. At incredible speed, it leaped straight up, vanished over the brush, and disappeared into the darkness. I had seen my beast. Checking my camera, I found it there. I had my proof.

My Chupacabra was real.

Returning to Roberto's house, the three of us relived our strange experience. We celebrated my success with a toast of room-temperature Costa Rican white rum. Even though my friends had not actually witnessed what I saw, there it was: my photo, my living proof.

The legendary Chupacabra lives!