One Critter You'll Never Catch.

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Terrier House of Poetry

Submitted: November 27, 2016

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Submitted: November 27, 2016



Shhh.... Can you hear that? That, my young friends, is the sound a Wignow rustling in the leaves. On nights like tonight, when the moon is at its farthest from earth, you can sometimes hear the Wignows calling out to each other. Now, if you don't sitting down for a while, I will tell about them. They are michievous fellers, I tell you. O yes, the crazziest little critters on God's blue earth. Of course I called the earth blue. Why call it green when its more than seventy prcent water. Now, as I was saying: there's no other creature like a Wignow. They got wide googly eyes , two fangs like those of a sabertooth and two feet  which leeve a radiant, golden glow wherever they go. I know because I met one. Yes siree, I saw my own four eyes- errr, make that two eyes. So, I say,I saw one close enough to reach out and grab him. He showed up one foggy evening, not much unlike tonight. The sky was cloudy as the trees swaed gently in the wind.

My partner and I had just finished scouting this here territory and were headed back to our lodges. I was planning on retiring to a nice quite evening, but no sooner had we parted ways then a particular Wignow, a Feathered Wignow, hopped out from a bush behind me. Well, prior to that night I had only heard of such a creature.  Folks call it the Feathered Wignow due to their leaf shape feathers. It is no fish story- they are as rare as they come. Mind you, ninety-nine out of one-hundred Wignows ever spotted, it is said, have only what appears to be fur from toe to head. This Feathered Wignow was relatively large for its kind – about two feet and four inches tall, I reckon. He started gently tugging at my pants leg, and began slowly hopping up and down. It took me near three and a half minutes to get him to stop. Once he did, he followed me all the way back to my Lodge. That is to say, he walked with me the whole four miles from Helmglow Peak to Reng —Tail Den. I stopped when we reached the door to my lodge and briefly looked down. “Now, you do not suppose I am going to let you in, do you?” I asked the Wignow. He just tilted his head. “Go away!” I urged him. “There is nothing for you here.” What happened next, I could hardly believe myself. I do solemnly reckon that the Wignow began talking – not in English, but in some strange Native American language rather similar to Iroquoian. Frankly, I had never met a talking animal; therefore, I was not about to deny such an extraordinary creature into my quarters. How is one supposed to know any better? As sas I opened my door, that Wignow, I tell you, was more hyper than a chimpanzee on its third cup of coffee. First, those googly eyes rolled backed and forth as he examined the room. Then, just like that, his little legs coiled up and bang! – That Wignow sprang into action. Oh, before I could stop him, he was bouncing to and froe, scurrying crossed countertops, and in and out of cupboards; I kid you not, pots and pans went flying! This continued for about I would say, um, four minutes. He was present everywhere I looked. He even unrolled the toilet paper. The critter paused only to daringly charge through the window before waddling (like a fat penguin) off into the woods. I heaved a deep sigh of relief, watching him disappear into the darkness. What a mess! I thought. I had not the slightest clue what to do about it. One thing is for sure though. I decided right then and there, that the mess would have to wait. All the racket made me hungry so I set some beans on the stove and settled down to nice quiet meal. By golly, I thought had seen the last of that feathered beast: that pernicious Feathered Wignow. I slowly grabbed a few logs and started a fire in order to keep warm. Yet as I sat there, munching on my food, guess who came waltzing down the road. It was one of my fishing partners. John was his name. Apparently, he was out of bobbers. I cannot say I was surprised. The man goes through ten a day.  I stumbled outside to meet him, hoping he would not see the broken window. Such hope was vain. It just so happens that John is the most observant guy I know. I wearily watch as he glanced at the window. “So…. How about those Yankees.” John finally piped up. I scratched my head and handed him the bobbers. “John, you know I am a Cubs fan.”

“Oh, isn’t that right. Anyways I want to thank you for the bobbers. You always seem to have what I am looking for.”

“Not a problem, John.” I replied. With that, he turned and left. As for me, I headed back into the lodge. Apparently, Santa Claus is not the only one with the peculiar habit of climbing down chimneys. Once I was inside, I again saw the Feathered Wignow. He had returned. When I charged at him, I was blinded by a piercing yellow light. To this day, I cannot explain how I felt during that moment. Nor can I even begin to understand what happened. When the light faded and I finally regained my sight -well gosh, I thought I was dreaming. The lodge was clean and not a scratch was on the window. All that was left of the Wignow was a feather and a pair of golden footprints next my refrigerator. I have yet to see a single Wignow since, but one question still remains. “What kind of power do these Wignows possess?"

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