The Chupa-Ex-bra - by Omar

If you’re white, you may not have heard, but among Latinos, the news traveled swiftly last week, via e-mail, pre-paid phone call and carrier mosquito: the Chupacabra, at long last, was dead.

In fact, it wasn’t even a mythical creature. It was a hairless coyote. Not even a real coyote: this was just a kind of dog, not the guy in the big truck who brought your cousins across the border for a fee.

Suddenly, it was safe to let your goats play outside again. Goats could take walks at night in the park. Goats parking at a romantic, dark cove on a Saturday night, no longer had to worry about a hook-bearing goat-sucker killing them both.

Would that I could be so happy.

Since the news broke, I’ve felt sick and guilty, ashamed and afraid. But I think I’m ready to come forward. I think it’s time I was honest.

Before I met my wife, in the wild, debauched time after I moved to Austin… I dated a hairless coyote.

I never suspected. I never knew. When I heard that she was a “Wild goatsucker,” I just thought she was just a freak in bed. And you know what? She totally was.

When I started seeing the news stories, I wondered if it was my hairless coyote. Sheila? Is that you? Could it be? After all this time?

Sadly, it’s her. That dried up, curled tongue is unmistakable. I can never forget all those times we made out, listening to Enigma.

I never got to say goodbye. I never got to learn what made her go out and kill all those goats.

All those angry farmers, all those frightened goats. They never knew my girl.

RIP, Sheila.