Sparky says quite assuredly that it wasn’t Bigfoot. Generally, you can trust the word of a dog. 

Delilah says that it was Bigfoot. Delilah is not a very reliable witness. She is always napping, and most often what she says that she saw is only something that she dreamt about. Cats are like that.

Of course, Bigfoot says it wasn’t him. “I wasn’t there,” he says.  

I’m an investigative reporter for Adirondack Stream Media. When there is a local news story involving cryptids, I have to get the facts. What did anyone actually see? Where and When? How can Sparky be so sure that it wasn’t Bigfoot? I went to Whitehall to find out.

I stopped at the Big Apple Diner. I went in and I noticed Sparky asleep beneath the counter. Delilah was curled up on a chair in a corner, licking a paw. I ordered a cup of joe and struck up a conversation with Mildred, the waitress. Nice lady, about fiftyish, in a red apron. “Would you like some pie?” she offered.

“Uh, no, thank you. What do you know about it?” I asked her. “I only know that it’s not what everyone says it is,” she told me. “Oh,” I said, “what is everyone saying?” “Well,” she said, “Jack the Plumber said it was definitely Bigfoot. He says he almost hit him with his van. Alice…she works the dinner shift here…she said it wasn’t Bigfoot. She says it was a moose or a bear, most likely. Alice is the sober one.”

“What about Sparky and Delilah?” I asked. “They’re animals,” she said, “what do they know about a sasquatch?” “Do you mind if I speak with them?” I asked. “No. Go ahead, if they’ll talk to you,” she said with a smirk.

So I went over to Delilah. An orange tabby, she blinked welcomingly at my approach, got down off of her chair and began to snuggle against my leg. I bent down and picked her up, and then I sat with her on my lap. “Tell me about Bigfoot,” I said.

“What Bigfoot?” she said. Puzzled, I said, “You told some folks that you saw Bigfoot. Did you?” “Where would that have been?” she asked coyly. “Out on Route 4,” I told her. “Not me,” she said. “I never leave the diner.” She mewed and snuggled up my chest. I shook my head, set her down, and went to speak with Sparky. 

Before I could, Jack the Plumber drifted into the diner, and Mildred alerted him that I was a reporter come to investigate Bigfoot. “Oh? Well, I’m the one you should speak to,” Jack said as he headed over to me, thumbing his chest. “I almost hit him with my van…outside on Route 4.”

 I could smell alcohol on his breath. “How can you be sure it was Bigfoot?” I asked. “Oh, I know my Bigfoots,” he said. “I’ve seen plenty of ‘em over the years here in Whitehall.” He hiccuped. 

“Alice thinks that it was a moose or a bear,” I told him. “Oh, does she now?” he said. “Well, I know my sasquatches from my bearsis.” He slurred. “Well,” I said, “Sparky appears to disagree.” “He’s a dog!” Jack the Plumber complained. “Yep,” I said, offering a tempering concurrence. “Maybe I’ll go speak with him.” And I left Jack the Plumber to go speak with Sparky.

“So, you spoke with the cat, did you? What’d she say? And Jack the Plumber, too? Saved me for last, huh?” He snorted. It seemed Sparky was bothered by the pecking order. “Well,” I said, “I wanted to hear from the pros before the cons. You understand. I have to get one side at a time. It helps me to focus,” I apologized.

“Well, here’s the thing, see? I can smell a sasquatch from a mile away, even if I’m sitting here in the diner, and he’s out strolling along Route 4. If I didn’t smell him, then he wasn’t there. Must have been a bear or a moose that Jack the Plumber almost hit. He’s so tipsy all the time, he couldn’t tell the difference. And the cat? Forget about her. It’s the catnip.”

Among the folks at the diner, the truth was hard to find. Most likely, Bigfoot is a myth. I figured I had my story, and I was about to leave when my phone rang. 

“This is Bigfoot,” the voice on the line said. “I wasn’t there.”

One thought on “The Myth of Whitehall by Edward Pontacoloni

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